Homepage
Login
Profile
BookClubs
dmBox
Read Ebook: The Friendly Killers by Tenneshaw S M Berry D Bruce Illustrator
Font size:
Background color:
Text color:
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page
Ebook has 858 lines and 21486 words, and 18 pages
The Friendly Killers
How do you fight an alien race invisible to Terran eyes? Particularly when you suspect your enemy is really masquerading as an ally!
--Hedikawa, GALACTIC HISTORY
THE LUCKY ONES
Outside the space-warp chamber, Rizal's great green sun had already set. Thick olive dusk eddied through the interplanetary transit center.
I swore under my breath and slammed shut the warp-hatch switch.
Locking bars whispered back. The hatch revolved on its axis, slow as an asteroid eroding. I threw another quick glance at my chrono.
It still read the same as before: six Earth hours more ... six hours to ferret out the truth or be forever reconditioned.
--Six hours, that is, if Controller Alfred Kruze didn't cut it shorter.
And if he did, Rizal might very well change status. Today, it was billed as the FedGov's outermost bastion against the Kel. Tomorrow, it could prove man's fatal flaw, the Achilles heel in our whole system of defenses.
In which case--
Involuntarily, I shivered.
And still the hatch's cylinder moved at its same snail's pace.
Then, abruptly, there was a click of gears meshing. Tenons dovetailed. The hatch slid inward on its thick, girder-rigid tracks, back between the island banks of micromesh transistors.
Not waiting further, I squeezed between cylinder and slot and scrambled out into the night.
"Agent Traynor--?"
The voice came from the shadows. A dull, phlegmatic, tranquilized, conditioned voice. I stopped short; turned fast. "Who's asking?"
The man shrugged stolidly, not even picking up my tension. "I'm a port rep, Agent Traynor. Port rep second, that is--"
"So who told you to come out here? Who said you should meet me?"
"Oh...." A pause. "Well, you see, there's this sigman, Agent Traynor. Up in the Interworld Communications section. He had a regular 7-D clearance report that a FedGov Security investigation agent was warping in--you have to file a 7-D on all warpings, you know, Agent Traynor, on account of restrictives. So--well, the rep first was out to eat, so I just notified Rizal Security, just a routine report, and the unit controller there, an Agent Gaylord, he said for me to meet you, and--"
I bit down hard and shifted my weight, both at once, wondering if a broken jaw would interfere with the work of a port rep second.
The lights hit us almost in the same instant. Two seconds later a man who said he was Agent Gaylord was jumping down and locking wrists with me in Rizal's traditional greeting.
Even that wrist-lock set my teeth on edge. It was too solid, too stolid, too thorough a job of conditioning.
Or was it maybe, just a trifle over-done?
Thoughtfully, I studied Gaylord.
A tiny vein was twitching, up close to his hair-line. He seemed to have a tendency to nibble at his lower lip also. His nails--
We got into the grav-car. The routine began almost before we were off the ground: "Sorry I wasn't here to meet you, Traynor. But we didn't get a copy of your assignment order, or even of your warping clearance."
I shrugged. "I'm not surprised. The whole thing was pretty sudden."
"Oh?" Unit Controller Gaylord sounded as if he were trying to sound casual. "Just what is the 'whole thing,' Traynor? Are you allowed to tell me about it?"
"Glad to, if you'll promise not to turn me in for a psych check." I made a business of chuckling with wry good humor. "As a matter of fact, I'm here to become the recipient of good fortune."
"The re--What--?" The grav-car rocked as Gaylord swung round, staring at me.
"The recipient of good fortune," I repeated. "Rizal's a lucky planet these days: that's the word. So I'm here to see if I can hook one of the prizes."
Gaylord faced front again--a trifle abruptly, it seemed. The grav-car speeded up.
I said "They're clever gadgets, Gaylord. Have you picked up any more of them?"
My companion's face stayed expressionless as a mask. "Any more of what?"
I shrugged. "Thrill-mills, obviously."
"Thrill-mills--?"
I leaned back in my seat, full of the satisfaction that comes of drawing the right card. "A thrill-mill," I observed, assuming a mock-academic tone, "is a fantastically expensive little device known technically as a perceptual intensifier. It's given away, not bought or sold, and is found only on Rizal. No one knows where it comes from, or why. Neither is there any certainty as to its true purpose. But whether as primary function or by-product, it shatters the wall of tranquillity established by our Educational Psych Department's inhibitory conditioning program and supplies the user with sensory, emotional and intellectual experiences of his selection, also vividly communicated as to render his earlier, conditioned contacts with reality as flat and insipid as so many pale grey shadows."
No response from Gaylord. Banking not too steadily, he slowed the grav-car and, dropping down a hundred feet or so, eased it to a landing on a roof emblazoned with the FedGov Security insignia.
I waited till the little craft slid to a halt. Then, quite casually, I asked, "How about it, Gaylord? Do those gadgets really jolt you as hard as they say?"
My companion stopped short with the grav-car's door half open. His voice grew suddenly shriller than before. "What are you talking about? How would I know?"
"That's plain enough, isn't it? Obviously, you've used one."
For a taut second, Gaylord sat unmoving. Then, savagely, he snatched for the front of my tunic.
I didn't even draw back.
Gaylord's face seemed to sag. Breathing fast and shallow, he let go of me and began chewing at his lower lip.
Still pointedly casual, I smoothed my tunic. "Take a good look at yourself, Controller," I suggested. "How would you diagnose a man whose temper flares, in a world where temper can't exist? How would you judge someone who jumps and jerks and jitters under pressure?"
No response.
I leaned forward. "You know the answer, of course, as well as I do. When the thrill-mills began to come in, you thought you'd experiment with one a little--try it out, see how it worked.
"Next thing you knew, your patterns were cracking. You found you couldn't stand the drabness of conditioned living. The world was too bright, too vivid; reality was just too wonderful to give up.
"So, instead of turning yourself in for reconditioning, you've tried to hide the truth and pretend to be just as dull and unresponsive as you were before...."
Gaylord's face had grown paler and paler as I talked. Now suddenly, he spun in his seat and tried to throw himself out the grav-car's open door.
Add to tbrJar First Page Next Page