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“Let me get one of my eyes through the hole,” I said.
By balancing on tiptail and tiptoe I got my body up high enough to extend an eye stalk up through the opening. I gave it a 360 degree scan, then withdrew it.
“Really great. Junk all around, none of the admirals looking in our direction and the guards are out of sight. Give me the molecular unbinder and stand back.”
I climbed out of the alien outfit and up onto its shoulders where I could easily reach the ceiling. The molecular unbinder is a neat little tool that reduces the binding energy between molecules so that they turn to monatomic powder and slough away. I ran it in a big circle, trying not to sneeze as the fine dust rained down, then grabbed the metal disc as I closed the circle. After handing this down to Angelina I put a wary head up through the opening and looked around. All was well. An admiral with an iron jaw and a glass eye was sitting nearby, the picture of dejection. I decided on a little morale rising.
“Psst, Admiral,” I hissed, and he turned my way. His good eye widened and his jutting jaw sank in an impressive ma
So much for trusting admirals. Not only didn’t he nod his head, but he jumped to his feet and shouted at the top of his voice.
“Guards! Help! We’re being rescued!”
Nine
I didn’t really expect much gratitude, particularly from an officer, but this was ridiculous. To traverse thousands of light years of space, through dangers too numerous to mention, to suffer the loving embraces of Gar-Baj, all of this to rescue some motheaten admirals, one of whom instantly tried to turn me in to the guards. It was just too much.
Not that I hoped for anything much better. You don’t live to be a gray-whiskered stainless steel rat without being suspicious at all times. My needle gun was ready, since I was alert for trouble from the guards, but I was also certainly prepared to get some from the prisoners as well. I flicked the control switch from “poison,” to “sleep”—which took an effort of will, let me tell you—and pinged a steel needle into the side of the admiral’s neck. He slumped nicely, dropping toward me with arms out-stretched as though for one last grab at his savior.
I froze, motionless, when I saw what was revealed on those ski
“What’s happening?” Angelina whispered from below.
“Nothing good,” I hissed. “Absolute silence now.”
With a stealthy motion I lowered my head until just my eyes were above the rim of the opening, still concealed by the broken chairs, empty ration boxes and other debris. Had the guards heard the disturbance? Certainly the other prisoners had. Two octenarian officers tottered up and looked at the sprawled form of their comrade.
“What’s wrong? Fit of some kind?” one of them asked. “Did you hear what he shouted?”
“Not really. I had my hearing aid turned off to save the battery. Something about Mards Phelp, Meer Seen Plescu.”
“Doesn’t make sense. Perhaps it means something in his native language?”
“Nope. Old Schimsah is from Deshnik and that doesn’t mean a thing in Deshnikian.”
“Roll him over and see if he’s still breathing.”
They did and I was watching closely and nodded approvingly when my needle dropped from Old Schimsah’s neck when they moved him. With this evidence removed it would be a couple of hours at least before he came to and told them what had happened. That was all the time I needed. Plans were already forming in my head.
Dropping back down, I grabbed the disc of metal so recently removed, smeared the edge with lepak-glue—stronger than welding—and pushed it back up into place. There was a crunching sound as the glue set and the ceiling, not to mention the floor above, was solid again. Then I clambered back down and sighed heavily.
“Angelina, would you be so kind as to turn on some of your lights and to crack out a bottle of my best whiskey.”
There was light, and a sloshing glass, and patient Angelina waited until it had been lowered from my lips before she spoke.
“Isn’t it time you confided in your wife just what the hell is going on?”
“Pardon me, light of my life, I just had a bad moment there.” I drained the glass and forced a smile. “It started when I whispered to the nearest admiral. One look at me and he called the guards. So I shot him.”
“One less to rescue,” she said with satisfaction.
“Not quite. I used a sleeping needle. No one heard what he said so I slipped away and the opening is sealed, but that is not what is bothering me.”
“I know you haven’t been drinking, but you don’t sound too lucid.”
“Sorry. It was the admiral. When he dropped over I saw his wrists. There were red marks like scars around both of them.”
“So?” she asked in obvious puzzlement—then her face went suddenly pale. “No, it couldn’t possibly be?”
I nodded slowly, finding it impossible to smile. “The gray men. I could recognize their handiwork anywhere.”
The gray men. Just thinking of them sent a chill down my back—a back, I must add, that is not chill-prone very often. While I am strong and brave and stand up to the physical batterings of life quite well, I, like all of us, find it hard to resist direct assaults on my gray matter. The brain has no defenses once the inputs of the body have been bypassed. Plug an electrode into the pleasure center of an experimental animal’s brain and it keeps pushing the button that supplies the electric fix until it dies of hunger or thirst. Dies happily.
Some years ago, while involved in straightening out a little matter of interplanetary invasion, I had been cast in the role of experimental animal. I had been captured and secured—and had seen both of my hands cut off at the wrists. Then had lost consciousness and, when I came to, had seen the hands apparently sewn back on. With scars just like those the admiral had been sporting.
But my hands had never been cut off. The scene had been imprinted directly into my brain. Yet for me it had happened, along with a number of other loathsome things which are better forgotten.
“The gray men must be here,” I said. “Working with the aliens. No wonder the admirals are cooperating. Being firmly structured in the physical world of commands and obedience, they are perfect targets for brain stomping.”
“You must be right—but how is it possible? The aliens hate all humans and certainly wouldn’t work with the gray men. Nasty as they are, they are still human.”
As soon as she said it that way I saw the answer clearly. I smiled and embraced her and kissed her, which we both enjoyed, then held her at arm’s length since she was a great distraction to clear thought.
“Now hear this, my love. I think I see a way out of this entire mess. All of the details aren’t clear—but I know what you must do. Could you bring the boys and a crowd of those Cill Airne back here? Go up through the floor, shoot the guards, put the admirals to sleep, then carry them away?”
“I could arrange that, but it would be a little dangerous. How would we get them clear?”
“That’s what I will take care of. If I had this entire planet in a turmoil, no one knowing what was happening next or who to take orders from or anything—would that make the job easier?”
“It would certainly simplify things. What do you plan to do?”
“If I told you you might say that it was too dangerous and would forbid me. Let me say only that it must be done and that I am the only one to do it. I am off in my alien disguise and you have two hours to assemble the troops. As soon as things start falling apart make your move. Get them all to some safe spot, preferably near the spacedrome. I’ll get back to my sleeping quarters as soon as I can. Have a guide waiting there for me. But make sure that he knows that he is to wait no more than one hour for me to show up. What I have to do will be done by that time and I will get back. There should be no problems. But if there is and I’m not there he is to report right back to you. I can take care of myself as you know. And we can’t jeopardize everything by waiting for one person. When the guide reports back with or without me, you go. Grab a spaceship then at the height of the confusion and leave this place.”