The Puppet Masters (36 page)

Finally Rexton stood up. “I’m going to freeze it at seventeen forty-five,” he announced. “Mr. President, if you will excuse me?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Rexton turned to Dad and myself. “If you two Don Quixote’s are still determined to go, now is the time.”

I stood up. “Mary, you wait for me.”

She asked, “Where?” It had already been settled—and not peacefully!—that she was not to go.

The President interrupted. “I suggest that Mrs. Nivens stay here. After all, she is a member of the family.”

With the invitation he gave us his best smile and I said, “Thank you, sir.” Colonel Gibsy got a very odd look.

Two hours later we were coming in on our target and the jump door was open. Dad and I were last in line, after the kids who would do the real work. My hands were sweaty and I stunk with the old curtain going-up stink. I was scared as hell—I never like to jump.

G
un
in my left hand, antitoxin injector ready in my right, I went from door to door in my assigned block. It was an older section of Jefferson City, slums almost; it consisted of apartment houses built fifty years ago. I had given two dozen injections and had three dozen to go before it would be time for me to rendezvous at the State House. I was getting sick of it.

I knew why I had come—it was not just curiosity; I wanted to see them
die
! I wanted to watch them die, see them dead, with a weary hate that passed all other needs. But now I had seen them dead and I wanted no more of it; I wanted to go home, take a bath, and forget it.

It was not hard work, just monotonous and nauseating. So far I had not seen one live slug, though I had seen many dead ones. I had burned one skulking dog that appeared to have a hump; I was not sure as the light had been bad. We had hit shortly before sundown and now it was almost full dark.

The worst of it was the smells. Whoever compared the odor of unwashed, lousy, diseased humans with that of sheep was no friend to decent sheep.

I finished checking the rooms of the apartment building I was in, shouted to make sure, and went out into the street. It was almost deserted; with the whole population sick with the fever we found few on the streets. The lone exception was a man who came weaving toward me, eyes vacant. I yelled, “Hey!”

He stopped. I said, “You are sick, but I’ve got what you need to get well. Hold out your arm.”

He struck at me feebly. I hit him carefully with my gun and he went face down. Across his back was the red rash of the slug; I avoided that area, picked a reasonably clean and healthy patch over his kidney and stuck in the injector, bending it to break the point after it was in. The units were gas-loaded; nothing more was needed. I did not even withdraw it, but left him.

The first floor of the next house held seven people, most of them so far gone that I did not bother to speak but simply gave them their shots and hurried on. I had no trouble. The second floor was like the first.

The top floor had three empty apartments, at one of which I had to burn out the lock to enter. The fourth flat was occupied, in a manner of speaking. There was a dead woman on the floor of the kitchen, her head bashed in. Her slug was still on her shoulders, but merely resting there, for it was dead, too, and beginning to reek. I left them quickly and looked around.

In the bathroom, sitting in an old-fashioned bathtub, was a middle-aged man. His head slumped on his chest and his wrist veins were open. I thought he was dead but he looked up as I bent over him. “You’re too late,” he said dully. “I killed my wife.”

—or too soon, I thought. From the appearance of the bottom of the tub and by his gray face, five minutes later would have been better. I looked at him, wondering whether or not to waste an injection.

He spoke again. “My little girl—”

“You have a daughter?” I said loudly. “Where is she?”

His eyes flickered but he did not speak. His head slumped forward again. I shouted at him, then felt his jaw line and dug my thumb into his neck, but could find no pulse. As a favor to him I burned him carefully through the base of the brain before I left.

The child was in bed in one of the rooms, a girl of eight or so who would have been pretty had she been well. She roused and cried and called me Daddy. “Yes, yes,” I said soothingly, “Daddy’s going to take care of you.” I gave her the injection in her leg; I don’t think she noticed it.

I turned to go but she called out again. “I’m thirsty. Want a drink of water.” So I had to go back into that bathroom again.

As I was giving it to her my phone shrilled and I spilled some of it. “Son! Can you hear me?”

I reached for my belt and switched on my phone. “Yes. What’s up?”

“I’m in that little park just north of you. Can you come? I’m in trouble.”

“Coming!” I put down the glass and started to leave—then caught by indecision, I turned back. I could not leave my new friend to wake up in that charnel house, a parent dead in each room. I gathered her up in my arms and stumbled down to the second floor. There I entered the first door I came to and laid her on a sofa. There were people in the flat, probably too sick to bother with her, but it was all I could do.

“Hurry, son!”

“On my way!” I dashed out of there and wasted no more breath talking to him, but made speed. Dad’s assignment was directly north of mine, paralleling it and fronting on one of those pint-sized downtown parks. When I got around the block I did not see him at first and ran on past him.

“Here, son, over here—at the car!” This time I could hear him both through the phone and my bare ear. I swung around and spotted the car, a big Cadillac duo much like the Section often used. There was someone inside but it was too dark for me to see whether or not it was the Old Man. I approached cautiously until I heard him say, “Thank God! I thought you would never come,” and knew that it was he.

I had to duck to get in through the door. It was then that he clipped me.

I came to, to find my hands tied and my ankles as well. I was in the second driver’s seat of the car and the Old Man was in the other, at the controls. The wheel on my side was latched up out of the way. The sudden realization that the car was in the air brought me fully awake.

He turned and said cheerfully, “Feeling better?” I could see his slug, riding high on his shoulders.

“Some better,” I admitted.

“Sorry I had to hit you,” he went on, “but there was no other way.”

“I suppose not.”

“I’ll have to leave you tied up for the present; you know that. Later on we can make better arrangements.” He grinned, his old wicked grin. Most amazingly his own personality came through with every word the slug said.

I did not ask what “better arrangements” were possible; I did not need nor want to know. I concentrated on checking my bonds; I need not have bothered—the Old Man had given them his personal attention.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“South.” He fiddled with the controls. “’Way south. Just give me a moment to lay this heap in the groove and I will explain what’s in store for us.” He was busy for a few seconds, then said, “There—that will hold her until she levels off at thirty thousand.”

The mention of that much altitude caused me to take a quick look at the control board. The duo did not merely look like one of the Section’s cars; it actually
was
one of our souped-up jobs. “Where did you get this car?” I asked.

“The Section had it cached in Jefferson City. I looked, and, sure enough, nobody had found it. Fortunate, wasn’t it?”

There could be a second opinion on that point, I thought, but I did not argue. I was still checking the possibilities—and finding them somewhere between slim and hopeless. My own gun was gone, as I could tell by the pressure. He was probably carrying his on the side away from me; it was not in sight.

“But that was not the best of it,” he went on; “I had the good luck to be captured by what was almost certainly the only healthy master in the whole of Jefferson City—not that I believe in luck. So we win after all.” He chuckled. “It’s like playing both sides of a very difficult chess game.”

“You did not tell me where we are going?” I persisted. I did not know that it would help, but I was getting nowhere fast and talking was the only action open to me.

He considered. “Out of the United States, certainly. My master may be the only one free of nine-day fever in the whole continent and I don’t dare take a chance. I think the Yucatan peninsula would suit us—that’s where I’ve got her pointed. We can hole up there and increase our numbers and work on south. When we do come back—and we will!—we won’t make the same mistakes.”

I said, “Dad, can’t you take these ties off me? I’m losing circulation. You know you can trust me.”

“Presently, presently—all in good time. Wait until we go full automatic.” The car was still climbing; souped up or not, thirty thousand was a long pull for a car that had started out as a family model.

I said, “You seem to forget that I was with the masters a long time. I know the score—and I give you my word of honor.”

He grinned. “Don’t teach grandma how to steal sheep. If I let you loose now, you’ll kill me or I’ll have to kill you. And I want you alive. We’re going places, son—you and me. We’re fast and we’re smart and we are just what the doctor ordered.”

I did not have an answer. He went on, “Just the same—about you knowing the score: why didn’t you tell me the score, son? Why did you hold out on me?”

“Huh?”

“You didn’t tell me how it felt. Son, I had no idea that a man could feel such a sense of peace and contentment and well-being. This is the happiest I’ve been in years, the happiest since—” he suddenly looked puzzled, and then went on, “since your mother died. But never mind that; this is better. You should have told me.”

Disgust suddenly poured over me and I forgot the cautious game I was playing. “Maybe I didn’t see it that way. And neither would you, you crazy old fool, if you didn’t have a filthy slug riding you, talking through your mouth, thinking with your brain!”

“Take it easy, son,” he said gently—and so help me, his voice
did
soothe me. “You’ll know better in a little while. Believe me, this is what we were intended for, this is our destiny. Mankind has been divided, warring with himself. The masters will make him whole again.”

I thought to myself that there were probably custard heads just screwy enough to fall for such a line—surrender their souls willingly for a promise of security and peace. But I did not say so; I was clamping my jaws to keep from throwing up.

“But you need not wait much longer,” he said suddenly, glancing at the board. “I’ll nail her down in the groove.” He adjusted his dead-reckoner bug, checked his board, and set his controls. “That’s a relief. Next stop: Yucatan. Now to work.” He got out of his chair and knelt beside me in the crowded space. “Got to be safe,” he said, as he strapped the safety belt across my middle.

I brought my knees up in his face.

He reared up and looked at me without anger. “Naughty, naughty. I could resent that—but the masters don’t go in for resentment. Now be good.” He went ahead, checking my wrists and feet. His nose was bleeding but he did not bother to wipe it. “You’ll do,” he said. “Now be patient; it won’t be long.”

He went back to the other control seat, sat down and leaned forward, elbows on knees. It brought his master directly into my view.

Nothing happened for some minutes, nor could I think of anything to do other than strain at my bonds. By his appearance, the Old Man was asleep, but I placed no trust in that.

A line formed straight down the middle of the horny brown covering of the slug.

As I watched it, it widened. Presently I could see the clotted opalescent horror underneath. The space between the two halves of the shell widened—and I realized that the slug was fissioning, sucking life and matter out of the body of my father to make two of itself.

I realized, too, with rigid terror, that I had no more than five minutes of individual life left to me. My new master was being born and soon would be ready to mount me.

Had it been humanly possible for flesh and bone to break the ties on me I would have broken them. I did not succeed. The Old Man paid no attention to my struggles. I doubt if he were conscious; the slugs must surely give up some measure of control while they are occupied with splitting. It must be that they simply immobilize the slave. As may be—the Old Man did not move.

By the time I had given up, worn out and sure that I could not break loose, I could see the ciliated silvery line down the center of the slug proper which means that fission is about to be complete. It was that which changed my line of reasoning, if there were reason left in my churning skull.

My hands were tied behind me, my ankles were tied, and I was belted tight across the middle to the chair. But my legs, even though fastened together, were free from my waist down; the seat had no knee belts.

I slumped down in the chair to get even more reach and swung my legs up high. I brought them down smashingly across the board—and set off every launching unit in her racks at once.

That adds up to a lot of g’s—how many, I don’t know, for I don’t know how full her racks were. But there were plenty. We were both slammed back against the seats. Dad much harder than I was, since I was strapped down. He was thrown against the back of his seat, with his slug, open and helpless, crushed between the two masses.

It splashed.

And Dad himself was caught in that terrible, total reflex, that spasm of every muscle that I had seen three times before. He bounced forward against the wheel, face contorted, fingers writhing.

The car dived.

I sat there and watched it dive, if you call it sitting when you are held in place only by the belt. If Dad’s body had not hopelessly fouled the controls I might have been able to do something about it—gotten her headed up again perhaps—with my bound feet. As it was, I tried but with no success at all. The controls were probably jammed as well as fouled.

The altimeter was clicking away busily. We had dropped to eleven thousand feet before I found time to glance at it. Then it was nine…seven…six—and we entered our last mile.