The Randall Garrett MEGAPACK®. Randall Garrett

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СКАЧАТЬ cabinet, and began to make his rounds. He fired a shot into each and every one aboard. He had no way of knowing who had been injected by the small monsters and who had not, so he was taking no chances.

      Then he went to the colonel’s room. He wanted to be there when the Commanding Officer awoke.

      * * * *

      The entire crew of the Lord Nelson was gathered in the big mess hall. Wayne stared down at the tired, frightened faces of the puzzled people looking up at him, and continued his explanation.

      “Those of you who were under the control of the monsters know what it was like. They had the ability to inject a hypnotic drug into a human being through a normal space boot with those stingers of theirs. The drug takes effect so fast that the victim hardly has any idea of what has happened to him.”

      “But why do they do it?” It was Hollingwood, the metallurgist, looking unhappy with a tremendous bruise on his head where Wayne had clobbered him.

      “Why does a wasp sting a spider? It doesn’t kill the spider, it simply stuns it. That way, the spider remains alive and fresh so that young wasps can feed upon it at their leisure.”

      Wayne glanced over to his right. “Lieutenant Jervis, you’ve been under the effect of the drug longer than any of us. Would you explain what really happened when the Mavis landed?”

      The young officer stood up. He was pale and shaken, but his voice was clear and steady.

      “Just about the same thing that almost happened here,” Jervis said. “We all walked around the valley floor and got stung one at a time. The things did it so quietly that none of us knew what was going on until we got hit ourselves. When we had all been enslaved, we were ready to do their bidding. They can’t talk, but they can communicate by means of nerve messages when that needle is stuck into you.”

      Nearly half the crew nodded in sympathy. Wayne studied them, wondering what it must have been like. They knew; he could only guess.

      “Naturally,” Jervis went on, “those who have already been injected with the drug try to get others injected. When everyone aboard the Mavis had been stung, they ordered me to take the ship home and get another load of Earthmen. Apparently they like our taste. I had to obey; I was completely under their power. You know what it’s like.”

      “And what happened to the others—the eight men you left behind?” asked Colonel Petersen.

      Jervis clenched his teeth bitterly. “They just laid down on the sand—and waited.”

      “Horrible!” Sherri said.

      * * * *

      Jervis fell silent. Wayne was picturing the sight, and knew everyone else was, too—the sight of hordes of carnivorous little aliens burrowing up through the sand and approaching the eight Earthmen who lay there, alive but helpless. Approaching them—and beginning to feed.

      Just when the atmosphere began to grow too depressing, Wayne decided to break the spell. “I’d like to point out that the valley’s been completely cauterized,” he said. “The aliens have been wiped out. And I propose to lead a mission out to reconnoiter for the double-nucleus beryllium.”

      He looked around. “MacPherson? Boggs? Manetti? You three want to start over where we left off the last time?”

      Sergeant Boggs came up to him. “Sir, I want you to understand that—”

      “I know, Boggs,” Wayne said. “Let’s forget all about it. There’s work to be done.”

      “I’m sorry I misjudged you, Wayne. If it hadn’t been for your quick action, this crew would have gone the way of the Mavis.”

      “Just luck, Colonel,” Wayne said. “If it hadn’t been for those heavy-soled climbing boots, I’d probably be lying out there with the rest of you right now.”

      Colonel Petersen grinned. “Thanks to your boots, then.”

      Wayne turned to his team of three. “Let’s get moving, fellows. We’ve wasted enough time already.”

      “Do we need spacesuits, sir?” Manetti asked.

      “No, Manetti. The air’s perfectly fine out there,” Wayne said. “But I’d suggest you wear your climbing boots.” He grinned. “You never can tell when they’ll come in handy.”

      THE PENAL CLUSTER (1957)

      The clipped British voice said, in David Houston’s ear, I’m quite sure he’s one. He’s cashing a check for a thousand pounds. Keep him under surveillance.

      Houston didn’t look up immediately. He simply stood there in the lobby of the big London bank, filling out a deposit slip at one of the long, high desks. When he had finished, he picked up the slip and headed towards the teller’s cage.

      Ahead of him, standing at the window, was a tall, impeccably dressed, aristocratic-looking man with graying hair.

      “The man in the tweeds?” Houston whispered. His voice was so low that it was inaudible a foot away, and his lips scarcely moved. But the sensitive microphone in his collar picked up the voice and relayed it to the man behind the teller’s wicket.

      That’s him, said the tiny speaker hidden in Houston’s ear. The fine-looking chap in the tweeds and bowler.

      “Got him,” whispered Houston.

      * * * *

      He didn’t go anywhere near the man in the bowler and tweeds; instead, he went to a window several feet away.

      “Deposit,” he said, handing the slip to the man on the other side of the partition. While the teller went through the motions of putting the deposit through the robot accounting machine, David Houston kept his ears open.

      “How did you want the thousand, sir?” asked the teller in the next wicket.

      “Ten pound notes, if you please,” said the graying man. “I think a hundred notes will go into my brief case easily enough.” He chuckled, as though he’d made a clever witticism.

      “Yes, sir,” said the clerk, smiling.

      Houston whispered into his microphone again. “Who is the guy?”

      On the other side of the partition, George Meredith, a small, unimposing-looking man, sat at a desk marked: MR. MEREDITH—ACCOUNTING DEPT. He looked as though he were paying no attention whatever to anything going on at the various windows, but he, too, had a microphone at his throat and a hidden pickup in his ear.

      At Houston’s question, he whispered: “That’s Sir Lewis Huntley. The check’s good, of course. Poor fellow.”

      “Yeah,” whispered Houston, “if he is what we think he is.”

      “I’m fairly certain,” Meredith replied. “Sir Lewis isn’t the type of fellow to draw that much in cash. At the present rate of exchange, that’s worth three thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars American. Sir Lewis might carry a hundred pounds as pocket-money, but never a thousand.”

      Houston СКАЧАТЬ