■

I left him where he was, picked up the gun,
tucked it away. There was a chewed place
across my coat front where the needles had
hit, a corresponding rip in the shirt. The
chromalloy plate underneath that covered
the artificial heart and lungs showed hardly
a scratch to commemorate the event. Six
inches higher or to the left, and he'd have
found unshielded hide. It wasn't like Banny
Tarleton to forget to mention a detail like
that. Maybe he was slipping; maybe that
was the break that had let me get this far.
Maybe I could ride it a little farther, and
maybe I was already out on the skim ice,
too far from shore to walk back.
I'd tried to stop Tarleton with indirect
methods; they hadn't worked. Now there
was only one direction left: straight ahead,
into the trap he had laid.
fill I'D HAVE TO HILL Him 1TH fllY Oil HflflDS.

1 DEFEATED
Keith Laumer
A DELL BOOK

Published by
DELL PUBLISHING CO., INC.
1 Dag Hammarskjold Plaza
New York, New York 10017
Copyright © 1963, 1965, 1967 by Keith Laumer
These stories were first published in
Galaxy and Worlds of Tomorrow
All rights reserved. No part of this book may
be reproduced in any form or by any means without
the prior written permission of the Publisher,
excepting brief quotes used in connection with
reviews written specifically for inclusion in a
magazine or newspaper.
Dell ® TM 681510, Dell Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
First printing—June 1974

CONTENTS
WORLDMASTER 7
THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
THUNDERHEAD 115
END AS A HERO 168

WORLDMASTER
I
In the boat bay four Deck Police held guns on me while
two more shook me down. When they finished, they
formed up a box around me.
"All right, this way, sir," the Warrant said. He was a
dandified overweight lad with pale hard little eyes like
unripe olives. Four power guns snapped around to
hold on me, rib-high. I stumbled a little and the nearest
gun jumped. The boys were a hair more nervous than
they looked. As for myself, I was long past the nervous
stage; it took all I had left just to stay on my feet with
nothing left over to wonder about the curious reception
given to a surviving captain paying his courtesy call on
his admiral after a twenty-eight-hour action in which
two fleets had been wiped out.
Here aboard the flagship everything was as smooth
and silent as a hotel for dying millionaires. We went
along a wide corridor lit like the big window at Carrier's
and carpeted in a pale blue as soft as a summer breeze,
took the high-speed lift up the command deck. There
were more DPs here, spit-and-polished in blue-black
class A's with white gloves, mirror-bright boots, and
chromalloy dress armor. The guns they aimed at me
were fancy Honor Guard models with ebony stocks and
bright-plated barrels; but they would fire real slugs if

8
KEITH LAUMER
occasion demanded. The Warrant came up beside me,
smelling a little sweeter than ordinary after shave. "Per-
haps you'd like to step along to the head and tidy up a
bit before going in," he told me. "I have a clean uni-
form ready for you and—"
"This one's okay," I said. "Oh, it's got a few cuts and
tears and a couple of scorched spots no bigger than the
doily under a demitasse, but it came by them honor-
ably, as the saying goes. Maybe I need a shave, but no
worse than I did yesterday. I've been a little busy,
mister—" I cut it off before it got entirely out of hand.
"Let's take a chance and go in. The admiral may be
curious about what happened to his fleet."
The Warrant's mouth tightened up as though he had
a string threaded through his lip.
"I'm-afraid I'll have to insist-—" he started. I brushed
past him. One of the ratings beside the door leading into
the admiral's quarters jabbed his gun at me as I came
toward him.
"Go ahead, son, fire it," I said. "You've got it set on
full automatic; in this confined space you'll fry all of us
blacker than a newlywed's toast."
The annunciator above the door crackled, "Purdy,
take those weapons away from those men before there's
an accident!" a voice barked. "I'll see Captain Mac-
lamore immediately. Mac, stop scaring my men to
death."
The door slid back. I went through into a wide room
flooded with artificial sunlight as cheerful as paper flow-
ers and smelling of expensive cigar smoke. From a big
easy chair under the windorama with a view of a field of
ripe wheat nodding under a light breeze, Admiral Ban-
astre Tarleton gave me the old Academy smile, looking
hard and efficient and younger than four stars had any
right to. Behind him Commodore Sean Braze glowered,
his hands behind his back, big shoulders bulging under
his tailor-made tunic, a pistol strapped to his hip as in-
conspicuously as a rattlesnake at a picnic. A captain
with a small crinkled face and quick eyes looked at me

WO RLDM ASTER
9
from a chair off to the right. I threw a sloppy salute and
the braid dangling from my torn cuff flopped against my
sleeve. "Sit down, Mac." Tarleton nodded toward a
chair placed to half face him. I didn't move. He
frowned a little but let it pass.
"I'm glad to see you here," he said. "How are you
feeling?"
"I don't know how I'm feeling, Admiral," I said. "I
don't think I want to know."
"You fought your command like half the devils in
Hell, Mac. I'm writing you up for the Cross."
I didn't say anything. I felt dizzy. I was wondering if
it was too late to take the offer of a chair.
"Sit down before you fall down, Captain," the man
on the right said. Little bright lights were sleeting down
all around me. They faded and I was still standing. I
didn't know what I was proving.
"Anybody get out with you?" Braze was asking me.
He was a man who couldn't ask to have the salt passed
without making it sound like a sneer.
"Sure," I said. "My Gunnery Officer, Max Arena—
the upper half of him, anyway. Why?"
"I saw it on the big command screen," Tarleton said.
"A lucky break, Mac. A salvage crew couldn't have
sliced that nav dome away cleaner with cutting
torches."
"Yeah," I said.
"Here—" the monkeyfaced captain started. Tarleton
flicked a hand at him and he faded off.
"Something bothering you, Mac?" Tarleton was giv-
ing me the wise, patient look he'd learned from watch-
ing old Bing Crosby films.
"Why should anything be bothering me?" I heard
myself asking. "I've just had my ship shot out from
under me, and my crew wiped out, and seen what was
formerly the UN Battle Fleet blasted into radioactive
vapor while the flagship that mounted sixteen percent of
our total firepower pulled back half a million miles and
watched without firing a shot. You've probably got all

10
KEITH LAUMER
kinds of reasons for that, Admiral. Reasons that would
be way over my head. Some of them might even be
good. I wouldn't know."
"Watch your tongue, Maclamore!" Braze said.
"You're talking to a superior officer!"
"That's enough, Sean," Tarleton said sharply. He
was giving me a harder, less contrived look now. "Sure,
you've had a rough time, Mac. I'm sorry about that; if
there'd been any other way. . . ." He made a short,
choppy gesture with his hand. Then he lifted his chin,
got the firm-lipped look back in place. "But the Bloc
didn't fare any better. They're blasted out of space—
permanently. It was an even trade."
Maybe my eyelids flickered; maybe I gave him a look
that nailed his heart to his backbone; and maybe I was
just a little man with a big headache, trying not to show
it.
"An even trade," he repeated. He seemed to like the
sound of it. "I watched the action very closely, Mac,"
he went on. "If the tide had started to turn to favor the
Bloc, I'd have hit them with everything I had." He
worked his mouth as though he were trying a new set of
teeth for size; but it was an idea he was testing the fit of.
"And if the tide had started running our way, I'd
have come in, helped finish them off. As it was ... an
even match. The board's clean." He looked at me with
something dangerous sparkling back behind his eyes.
"Except for my flagship," he added softly.
The wrinklefaced captain was leaning forward; his
hands were opening and closing. Braze took his hands
out from behind himself and fingered the pistol bolt. I
just waited.
"You see what that means, don't you, Mac?" Tarle-
ton ran his fingers through his still-blond, still-curly hair,
wiped his hand down the back of his neck the way he
used to do in the locker room at the half, when he was
cooking up the strategy that was going to flatten the
opposition. "For the past ten years, both sides have
poured ninety-five percent of their military budgets into

WO RLDM ASTER
11
their space arms, while planet-based forces fought them-
selves into an undeclared truce. Both sides together
couldn't put a hundred thousand armed and equipped
men in the field today—and if they did—"
He leaned back, took a deep breath; I couldn't blame
him for that; he was breathing the heady aif of power.
"I have the only effective fighting apparatus on or off
the planet, Mac." He held out his hand, palm up, like a
kid showing me his shiny new quarter. "I hold the bal-
ance of power, right here."
"Why tell him this, Banny?" the brown-faced captain
said quickly.
"Button your lip, Captain," Tarleton snapped. "Keep
it buttoned." He heaved himself out of his chair, shot a
hard look at me, took a turn up and down the room,
stopped in front of me.
"I need good men, Mac," he said. He was staring at
me, his jaw muscles knotted and relaxed. I looked past
him at Braze, over at the other man. "Uh-huh," I said.
"That you do."
Braze took a step in my direction. His carefully
lamp-tanned face was as dark as an Indian's. Tarleton's
face twitched in a humorless smile.
"How long has it been?" he asked. "Sixty years?
Sixty-five? Two giant powers, sitting across the world
from each other, snarling and trading slaps. Sixty years
of petty wars, petty truces—of people dying—for noth-
ing—of wasted time, wasted talent, wasted resources—
while the whole damned universe is waiting to be
taken!"
He turned on his heel, stamped another couple of
laps, pulled up in front of me again.
"I decided to put an end to it. I made up my mind—
hell, over a year ago. My strategy since that time has
been directed toward this moment. I planned it, I ma-
neuvered it." He closed his hand as though he was
crushing a bug. "And I brought it off!"
He looked at me, happy, wanting to hear me say
something; I didn't say it. He went back to his chair, sat

12
KEITH LAUMER
down, picked up the long blackish cigar from the ash-
tray at his elbow, drew on it, put it down again, blew
the smoke out suddenly.
"There comes a time," he said flatly, "when a man
has to act on what he knows to be right. When he can
no longer afford the luxury of a set of mottos as a sub-
stitute for intelligence. Sure, I swore to uphold the Con-
stitution; it's easy to die for a flag, a principle, an oath
—but that won't save humankind from its own stupid-
ity. Maybe someday the descendents of the people
whose necks I'm saving in spite of themselves will thank
me. Or maybe they won't. Maybe I'll go down in the
book as the villian—a new and better Benedict Arnold.
I still say to hell with it. If all it takes to break the cycle
is the sacrifice of one man's personal—shall I say hon-
or?—then that's a small price. I'm prepared to pay it."
I heard him talking but it all seemed to be coming
from a long way off, remote, unreal. It didn't reach me.
I nodded toward the one he'd told to shut up.
"As the man said, why tell me?" I asked him, just to
be saying something.
"I want you with me, Mac," he said.
I looked at him.
"I wanted you in it from the beginning, but.. . ." He
frowned again. I was making him do a lot of frowning
tonight. "Maybe you can guess why I didn't speak to
you earlier. It wasn't easy sending you out with the oth-
ers. I'm glad you came through. Damned glad. Maybe
it's . . . some kind of sign." His lips twitched in what I
guess he thought was a smile.
"It wasn't easy—but you managed it." I wasn't sure
whether I said it or just thought it. The roaring in my
head was loud now; a hot black was closing in from the
sides. I pushed it back. For some reason I didn't want
to fall down right now; not here, not in front of Braze
and the little man with the darting eyes.
"We used to be friends, Mac," Tarleton was saying.
"There was a time. . . ." He got up again. It seemed he

WO RLDM ASTER
13
couldn't stay in one place. "Hell, it's simple enough; I'm
asking for your help," he finished.
"Yeah, we were friends, Banny," I said. For an in-
stant there was that strange hollow feeling, the heart-
stopping glimpse back down the yellowed and forgotten
years to the old Academy walls and the leaves that were
on the cinder track as you walked across, heavy-shoul-
dered in the practice gear, the cleats making you feel
tall and tough, and the faces of girls, and the smell of
night air, and the fast car bucking under you and
Banny, passing a flask back, and then again, across the
field while the crowd roared, his arm back, the ball tum-
bling down the blue sky and the solid smack and then
away and running—
"But you found other friends," I was saying, with no
more than an instant's pause. "They took you down an-
other path, I guess. Somewhere along there we lost it. I
guess today we buried it."
"That's right, we've taken our separate ways," he
said. "But we can still find common land. I didn't make
the Navy, Mac—but after I picked it as a way of life, I
learned to live with it—to beat it at its game. You
didn't. You bucked it. Sure, you made your points—but
they don't pay off for those. What do you expect, a
medal for stubborness? Hell, if it hadn't been for me
keeping an eye on you, you'd have been—" He stopped.
"Suffice it to say I got you your command," he ground
out.
I nodded. "I didn't know," I said. "It was a wonder-
ful thing while I had it. I'm grateful to you. And then
you took it away. It was a tough way to lose my ship,
Banny. In a way I'd almost rather not have had it—but
not quite."
He planted himself again, tried to catch my eye.
Somehow I seemed to be looking past him.
"I make no apologies," he snapped. "I did what I had
to do. Now there's more to be done. I'm going down to-
night to make my report to Congress. There are Cabinet

14
KEITH LAUMER
members to see, the President to be dealt with. It won't
be easy. It's not won yet. A wrong word in the wrong
place and I could still fumble this. I'm being frank with
you, Mac. I need a good man I can trust." He reached
out and clapped me on my upper arm—a caricature of
the old gesture, as self-consciously counterfeit as a
whore's passion. I shook the hand off.
"Don't be a fool," he said in a low voice, close to me.
"What do you think your alternative is?"
"I don't know, Admiral," I said. "But you'll think of
something."
Braze came over. "I don't like this, Banny," he said.
"You've said too damned much to him." He gave me a
look like a hired gun marking down a target for later
on. The other fellow was up now, not wanting to be left
out. He flicked his eyes at me, then at the gun at Braze's
belt.
"This fellow's no good for us," he said in a rapid,
breathless voice, like a girl about to make a daring sug-
gestion. "You'll have to ... dispose of him."
Tarleton swung around and looked at him.
"Have you ever killed a man, Walters?" he asked in a
tight voice. Walters' tongue popped out, touched his
lips. His eyes went to the gun again, darted away.
"No, but—"
"I have," Tarleton said. He walked across to the win-
dorama, punched the control; the scene shifted to heavy
seas breaking across a reef under a rock-gray sky.
"Last chance, Mac," he said in a mock-hearty voice.
"The thing happens; it's far too late to stop it now. Will
you be in it—or out?" He turned to face me, his clean-
cut American Boy features set in a recruiting-poster
smile.
"Count me out," I said. "I wouldn't be good at run-
ning the world." I looked at the other two. "Beside
which, I wouldn't like the company."
Braze lifted a lip to show me a square-looking ca-
nine. Walters half-closed his eyes and snorted softly
through his nose.

WO RLDM ASTER
15
"What about it Banny?" Braze said. "Walters is
right. You can't dump Maclamore back with the other
internees."
Tarleton turned on him. "You're telling me what I
can and can't do, Braze?"
"I'm making a recommendation," the Commodore
came back. "My neck is in this with yours now—"
"Another word of mutiny out of you, mister, and I'll
give orders that will have your precious neck stretched
before the big hand gets to the twelve. Want to try me?"
His voice was like something cut into a plate-glass win-
dow. He went to his chair and pushed a button set in
the arm.
"Purdy, send those four morons of yours in here—
and try not to shoot yourself through the foot in the
process." He went over and watched the waves some
more. The door opened with a sigh and the goon squad
appeared with the Warrant out front, fussing over them
like a headwaiter figuring the tip on ten pounds of
room-service caviar.
"Find quarters for Captain Maclamore on U deck,"
Tarleton said in a flat voice.
The Warrant bustled forward, all business now. "All
right, move along there—" he started. Tarleton whirled
on him.
"And keep a civil tongue in your head, damn you!
You're talking to a Naval officer!"
Purdy swallowed hard. I turned and walked out past
the ready gun muzzles. I didn't bother with the salute
this time. The time for saluting was all over.
II
The medic finished with me and left, and I lay back,
listening to the small ship-noises that murmured
through the walls. It had been about an hour now since
the last faint shocks that meant contact with one of the
chunks of debris that was all that was left of forty-two
fighting ships—twenty-two UN, the rest Bloc. At least

16
KEITH LAUMER
Tarleton had gone through the motions of picking up
what few survivors there might have been from the
slaughter—perhaps a few hundred dazed and bloody
men, the accidental leftovers of the power plays of
Grand Strategy.
I had come through in better shape than most of
them, I guessed. With the exception of a few minor cuts
and bruises and a mild concussion, aggravated by
twenty-eight hours without food or sleep, I was in as
good shape as I had been before the fight. My arms and
legs still worked; my heart was pumping away as usual;
my lungs were doing their job. The brain was still numb,
true, but it was working—working for its life.
Tarleton may or may not have meant it when he
turned down Braze's suggestion—but he had told me
far too much for any man to hear who was arrayed on
the opposite side of the fence from the Commodore. I
didn't need to break out of my cell to look for trouble:
it would come to me. Braze was a man who always took
the simple, direct course. It had won him a commodore's
star; he'd stay with the technique. He'd make his move
at the last minute before the ground party boarded the
boats for the trip down, to minimize the chance of word
getting to Tarleton; he'd have an account of an attempt-
ed escape ready for later, if Tarleton got curious—an
unlikely eventuality. The Admiral would have his hands
full digesting his conquests, with no time left over for
pondering the fates of obscure former acquaintances.
They'd be going down tonight, Tarleton had said.
He'd have a good-sized shore party with him; all of his
top advisors—or whatever ratfaced little men like
Walters called themselves—and a nice showing of
armed sailors, tricked out in dress blues and sidearms,
as a gentle reminder of the planet-wrecking power or-
biting ten thousand miles out.
The flagship carried a complement of two thousand
eleven men—all long since screened for reliability, no
doubt. If I knew Banny Tarleton, he'd have half of
them along on his triumphal march. That would call for

WO RLDM ASTER
17
twenty heavy scout boats. He'd use bays one through
ten on the upper boat deck for reasons of ease of load-
ing and orbital dynamics. . . .
I was building an elaborate structure of fancy on a
feeble foundation of guesses, but I had to carry the ex-
trapolation as far as I could. I wouldn't get a second
chance to make my try; maybe not even the first one—
and my quota of mistakes was already used up.
I got up and took a couple of turns up and down the
room. I still felt lightheaded, but the meal and the bath
and the dressings and the shots and the pills had helped
a lot. The plain set of ducks Purdy had provided were
comfortable enough, but I missed the contents of a cou-
ple of small special pockets that had been built into my
own clothes—the ones that had been taken away and
burned. The hardware was gone—but with a little luck
I might be able to improvise suitable substitutes.
A quick inspection of the room turned up an empty
closet, a chest with four empty drawers, a wall mirror, a
molded polyfoam chair that weighed two pounds soak-
ing wet, a framed tridograph of the Kennedy Monument
complete with shrapnel scars, and the built-in bunk to
which the medics had lowered me, groaning, ten min-
utes earlier. Not much there from which to assemble a
blaster—
I felt the tremor then—the teacup-rattling nudge of a
scout boat kicking free. Quite suddenly my mouth had
that dry feeling. Boat number two pushed off, then a
third. Tarleton wasn't wasting any time. At least there
wouldn't be any long tedious wait to see whether my
guesses had been right. The time for action was here. I
set my heart rate up two notches and metered a trickle
of adrenalin into my system, then went over to the door,
flattened myself against the wall to the left of it, and
waited.
Seven boats were away now. A couple of minutes
ticked past like ice ages. Then there was a soft stealthy
noise outside the door. With my ear against the wall, I
could imagine I heard voices. I set myself—

18
KEITH LAUMER
The door slid smoothly back and a man came
through it fast—a big thick-shouldered DP with pinkish
hair on an acneed neck, a use-worn Mark XX gripped
in a freckled fist the size of a catcher's mitt. I half-
turned to the left, drove my right into his side just be-
hind the holster hard enough to jar the monogram off
the hanky in my hip pocket—not fancy, but effective.
He made an ugly noise and went down clawing at him-
self like a cat, and I was over him, diving for the gun
that skidded to the wall and bounced back into my
hand, and I was rolling, bringing it up, seeing the light-
ning-flicker and feeling the hard tight snarl of the weap-
on in my hand as I slashed it across the open doorway.
The man there fell into the room, hit like a horse falling
in harness, and the air was full of the nausating stench
of burned flesh and abdominal wounds.
I got up, stepped to the redhead, kicked him hard
above the cheekbone; he gave up the attempt to loop
the loop on the rug. At the door I gave a quick glance
both ways: nobody in sight. There was another gentle
shock. Number eight? Or had I missed one . . . ?
It was a hot two minutes' work to get the unbloodied
uniform off its owner. It wasn't a good fit, but I buckled
everything up tight, strapped on the gun in a way that I
hoped would conceal the fold I'd taken in the waist
band, tried the boots: too big. I didn't like touching the
other fellow, but I had to. My feet complained a little,
but they went in, shrinking from the warmth of the dead
man's shoes. The redhead was still breathing; I thought
seriously about putting a burst into his head, then set-
tled for strapping his ankles and wrists and wadding a
shirt sleeve in his mouth. It cost me an extra minute and
a half. So much for the price of a human life.
Out in the corridor things were still quiet: Braze's
work again. He wouldn't have wanted witnesses. I
locked the door and headed for the boat.
Four more boats were away by the time I reached the
steel double doors that sealed U deck off from the main

WO RLDM ASTER
19
transverse. I pushed against them, swore, kicked the
panel. It gave off a dull clang. I kicked it again, then
yanked out the power gun, set it for a needle beam,
heard sounds on the other side, slammed the weapon
back into its holster in time to see the door jump back
and a square-jawed DP plant himself flatfooted in the
opening, gun out and aimed.
"Thanks, brother—" I started past him. He backed,
but kept me covered. A confused scowl was getting ready
to settle onto his face. "Hold your water, paisan—"
"Knock it off," I rapped. "Jeezus—can't you see I'm
missing formation? My boat—"
"What you doing on U deck?"
"Look—I had a sidekick, see? I wanted to see the
guy. Okay, satisfied? You want me shot for desertion?"
"Go on," he waved the gun at me, looking disgust-
ed. "But you'll never make it."
"Thanks, buddy—" I struck off at a dead run....
I had lost count, not sure whether it was eighteen or
nineteen—or maybe twenty, too late. . . .
I rounded the last corner, came into the low-ceilinged
boat deck, felt a throb of some kind of emotion—fear or
relief or a mixture—at the sight of thirty or forty blue-
uniformed men formed up in a ragged column, filing
toward the black rectangle of Number Two loading
port. I dropped back to a walk, came up to the column,
moved along with them. One man looked over his shoul-
der at me with a blank expression; the rest ignored me.
A middle-aged Warrant with a long leathery face saw
me, snarled silently, came back.
"You're Gronski, huh? Nice to see you in formation,
Gronski. You see me after breakaway; you and me got
to have a little talk about things—okay, Gronski?"
I looked sullen: it wasn't hard. It's a lot like looking
scared. "Okay, Chief," I muttered.
"By God, that's 'Aye, aye, Mr. Funderburk' to you,
swabbie!"

20
KEITH LAUMER
"Aye, aye, Mr. Funderburk," I growled out. He spun
with a squeak of shoe leather and walked away. The
man in front of me turned and looked me up and down.
"You ain't Gronski," he said.
"What else is new?" I snarled. "So I'm helping out a
pal—okay?"
"You and Funnybutt are gonna get along," he pre-
dicted and showed me his back again. I kept my eyes on
it until it was safely tucked away in the gloom of the
troop hold. Wedged in between two silent men on the
narrow shock seat, I held my breath, waiting for the yell
that would mean somebody hadn't been fooled. I won-
dered what lucky accident had made Gronski late, what
other lucky accident had assigned him to a detail with a
Warrant who didn't know his face. . . .
But calculating the odds on what was already accom-
plished was just sorting over dry bones. The odds ahead
were what counted. They didn't look good, but they
were all I had. I'd take them—and play the angles as
they fell like Rubinstein cutting the original sound track
of the "Flight of the Bumblebee."
hi
We berthed at Arlington Memorial just after midnight,
and as soon as he had the platoon formed up on the
ramp Funderburk called me over. I answered the sum-
mons with a certain reluctance; I had closed and locked
the door to the room where Braze's gunboys were await-
ing discovery, but there was no way of knowing how
long it would be before someone went around to check.
The trip down had taken about two hours and a half.
Of course, even if the room had been opened, it didn't
necessarily mean that anyone would have found it nec-
essary to advise the Admiral—
Or did it?
"Gronski, I got a little job for you," Funderburk
barked. "A couple of the brass up front had a little
trouble with the turbulence on the way in: looks like

WO RLDM ASTER
21
they kind of come unfed. It don't look good all over the
officers' head. Maybe you could kind of see about it."
"Sure. I mean, aye, aye, Mr. Funderburk. Do I get
a mop or just wipe it up with my sleeve?"
"Oh, a wise one, huh? Swell, Gronski. You and me
are gonna see a lot of each other. You want a mop, you
scout around and find one. Take all the time you want.
But I kind of advise you to be all finished in twenty
minutes because that's how long I'm giving the. detail
for chow. I don't guess you'll miss the flapjacks, unless
you got a tougher appetite than most."
"I'll finish in ten. Save me a stool at the bar."
Funderburk nodded. "Yeah, I can see you and me
are gonna click good, Gronski. See you on the gig list."
He turned and walked away—just like that. I didn't
wait around to see if he'd change his mind. I walked, re-
sisting the impulse to run, to the utility shack behind the
flight kitchen, went through it and out the side door and
around to the front, crossed a patch of grass and pushed
into a steamy odor of GI coffee and floor wax. A door
across the room was lettered men. Inside, I forced the
door to a broom closet, took out a pair of coveralls and
a push broom.
Back out in the predawn gloom ten minutes later
with my hair carefully rumpled and a layer of mud dis-
guising the shine on my boots that showed under the
too-short cuffs, I moved off briskly; in half a block I
found a blue-painted custodial cart lettered unsa. It
started up with a ragged hum; I wheeled it away from
the curb and headed for the lights of the main gate.
The boy on the guard post was no more than eigh-
teen, a snubnosed farm lad, still getting a kick out of the
sidearm and the badge and the white-painted helmet
finer. I pulled up to him, gave him a sheepish grin,
waved toward a cluster of glare signs half a block away,
wan in the misty night. I picked a name from a bilious
pink announcement looming above the others: "Just
slipping down to Maggie's for a pack of bolts, Looten-

22
KEITH LAUMER
ant," I told him. "Boy, a man really gets to hankering
for a smoke—"
"You guys give me a swiftie," the kid said. "Where
do you get them big ideas? You think the government
buys them scooters for you birds to joy-ride on? Climb
down offa there and try stretching your legs one time."
"You're too sharp for me, Lootenant," I admitted. He
watched, arms folded, while I wheeled the cart over to
the side, parked it beside the guard shack. I gave him a
wave that expressed the emotions of a game loser bow-
ing to superior guile, and ankled off toward the bright
lights. At the corner I looked back: he was still looking
military, savoring the satisfaction of rules enforced. I
hoped he wouldn't remember the base pass he hadn't
asked to see until I was hull-down over the horizon.
By the light of a polyarc over a narrow alley behind a
row of vice parlors, I sorted through my worldly goods;
the odds and ends that a trusted killer named Gronski
had had in his pockets when he set out on his final
assignment. It wasn't much: a keyring, a white plastic
comb clogged with grime, a wallet with a curled UNSA
ID bearing an unflattering view of what had never been
a pretty face, some outdated credit cards from the less
expensive bean-and-sex joints around Charleston, South
Carolina, six Cs in cash, and a pair of half-hearted por-
nographic snaps of a tired-looking girl with ribs. I pock-
eted the money, went along the alley to a public dispos-
al chute, and put the loot down into the odor of hot iron
and fruit rinds.
Clothes were my first problem. When Tarleton got
the word that I was gone, a cordon would move out
through the town as fast as a late-model Turbocad riot
car could roll. It would be nice if I could be over the
bridge and into DC proper before then. Nobody got
into the megalopolis nowadays without a full scope and
NAC. A set of baggy overalls might be good enough to
get me past a recruit pulling the graveyard shift on a

WO RLDM ASTER
23
class-two passenger depot; I'd have to do a lot better to
satisfy the gray-suit boys on the front door to the capitol.
Tarleton would figure me to make a run for the hills;
for the West Coast, maybe, or the anonymity of the
Paved State that had once been called the Land of
Flowers. He'd assume that for the moment my objective
would be limited to survival; he wouldn't expect me to
walk deeper into his net; not now; not until I had lain
up for a while to lick my wounds and lay my plans....
Or so my second-guessing bump told me. Maybe it
was as transparent as a bride's nightie that I'd head for
important ears to pour my story into. Maybe the gun-
nies were just around the next corner, waiting to cut me
down. Maybe I was already a dead man, just looking
for a place to stretch out.
And maybe I'd better stop being so goddamned
smart and get on with the job at hand, before I got my-
self picked up for loitering and did ninety standing on
my ear in the vag tank.
Halfway down the wrong side of a street that had
been classy about the time the sailmakers in Boston
began to decry the collapse of civilization, a dim-lit win-
dow hung with two-tone burlap sports jackets and card-
board shoes caught my eye. There was a dust-dimmed
glare strip along the top, lending the display all the gai-
ety of a funeral in the rain. It wasn't the smartest haber-
dashery in town, but it wouldn't be the best wired, either.
I went to the end of the street, took a left, found an
alley mouth, came back up behind my target. Aside
from kicking a couple of rusted cans and clipping a shin
on a post and swearing loud enough to wake up the old
maid at the end of the block, I came in as slick as a
traveling salesman making a late housecall. The lock
wasn't much: a mail-order electro job set in perished
plastic. I put a hip against it and pushed: the door frame
damn near fell in with me.
It took five minutes to look over the stock and select
a plain black suit suitable for the county to bury a

24
KEITH LAUMER
pauper in. I added a gray shirt that looked as though it
would hold its shape as long as nobody washed it, a tie
with a picture of a Balinese maiden, a pair of ventilated
shoes with steel taps on the heels that would be all that
was left after the first rain. The cash register tallied
three Cs and some change. I wrote out an IOU, signed
it, and tucked it in under the wire spring. That meant
that half an hour after the store opened Tarleton would
have a description of my new elegance—but by then it
wouldn't matter: I'd either be across the bridge or dead.
Three streets farther up the gentle slope above the
river I found what I needed: a blackened brick front
holding up two squares of age-tarnished plastex and a
door that had once been painted red. The left window
bore the legend irv's house of tattoo artistry and
the right balanced the composition with a picture of a
mermaid seated on an anchor holding a drowned sailor.
I walked past once, saw the glimmer of a light in a side
window visible along a two-foot airspace that ran back
on the right. There seemed to be no activity in the drink-
ing establishment next door; I slid into the alley, walked
over bottles, cans, things that squashed, other things
that crunched. If there were any dead bodies, I didn't
notice them.
At the rear there was a small court walled by taller
buildings on either side, a high fence with a gate letting
onto a wider alley. The light from the side window
showed up a few blades of green spring grass poking up
among cinders. Two concrete steps led up to a back
door. I stood on the bottom one and knocked, two
short, one long, two short. Nothing happened.
A bird let off a string of notes somewhere, stopped
suddenly as though he had just discovered he was in the
wrong place. It's an uncomfortable feeling; I know it
well.
I rapped again, same code, only louder. Still nothing.
I stepped back down, found a pebble, threw it at a
closed shutter up above, then went back and put an ear

WO RLDM ASTER
25
against the door. Sounds came, faint and ill-tempered. I
heard the bolt rattle; the door opened half an inch.
There was heavy breathing.
"It's a hot rasper," I said quickly. "Marple up on the
avtake before the fuzz gondle."
"Ha? Wha—?" a clogged voice started, broke off to
cough. I leaned on the door. "I got to see Irv," I
snapped. "Transik apple ready, tonight for sure." The
door yielded. I stepped into an odor of last month's
broccoli, last week's booze, and a lifetime of rancid
bacon fat and overdue laundry. A fat citizen in a gray
bathrobe with a torn sleeve thumbed uncombed gray
hair back from a red eye set in gray fat. The fingernail
was gray too. So was his neck. Maybe he liked gray.
"You rim the skin gallery?" I asked him.
"What's the grift, Jack?" He pulled the knot tight on
the robe, shot a look out the door, pushed it shut. I
watched his right hand.
"I need a job done," I told him. "They sent me to
you."
He grunted, looking me over. The hand lingered on
the belt.
"You mentioned a name," he said.
"Maybe you'll do," I said. The hand moved then,
slipped inside the robe, was halfway out again with a
Browning before I clamped down on his wrist. He shift-
ed, slammed his left at my stomach; I half-turned, took
it on the hip, jerked the hand out, bent it back, and
caught the gun as he dropped it. He didn't make a
sound.
"No need for the iron," I told him. "I want papers—
fast. Let's step along to your workshop. Time is of the
essence."
"What kinda gag—?"
I hit him on the side of the head with the gun hard
enough to stagger him. "No time for talking it up. Ac-
tion. Now." I motioned toward the curtain that hung in
the kitchen entry.
"You got me wrong, mister." He was rubbing his

26
KEITH LAUMER
face: his hard palm made a scratchy sound going over
the stubble. "I run a legitimate little art tattoo parlor
here—"
I took a step toward him, rammed the gun at his
belly. "Ever heard of a desperate man, Irv? That's me.
Maybe every tattoo joint on the planet isn't in the hot-
paper line, but I'm guessing this one is—and I get what
I want or you die trying. Better hope you can do it."
He worked his mouth, then turned and pushed
through the curtains. I followed.
It took Irv an hour to produce a new ID, a set of
travel orders, a Geneva card, and a special pass to the
Visitors' Gallery at the House. Once he got into the
swing of it, he was a true artist, as intent on perfection
as Cellini buffing a pirihead blemish off a twenty-foot
bronze.
"The orders are okay," he told me as he handed them
over, "the G-card, too. Hell, it's pra'tically genuine.
The pass—maybe. But don't try to fool nobody but
maybe some broad in a bar with that ID. Them Security
boys will have that number checked out—"
"That's okay. The stuff looks good. How much do I
owe you?"
He lifted his shoulders. "Hundred Cs," he said.
"Add fifty for getting you up," I said. "And another
fifty for the crack on the head. I'll mail it to you as soon
as I hear from home."
"The crack on the head's for free," he said. "How's
about leaving the Browning. You don't get them with
Cracker Jacks any more."
I nodded. "Let's go down." He went ahead of me
down the stairs, back through the kitchen, opened the
door. I took the magazine out of the gun, tossed it out
into the yard, handed him the Browning. He took it and
thrust it away, out of sight.
"The guy who worked on your hands was good," he
said softly. "Navy?"
I nodded. He ran a hand through the gray hair.

WO RLDM ASTER
27
"I worked with a lot of Navy guys in my time," he
said. The red eyes were as sharp as scalpels. "You done
time on a lot of quarterdecks, would be my guess. You
don't need to sweat me. I don't know no cops."
"Give me three hours," I said. "Then yell your head
off. Maybe you could use the Brownie points at head-
quarters."
"Yeah," he said. I went out and the door closed on
his still-gray face.
iv
It was a brisk ten-minute walk to Monticello Boule-
vard. I made it without attracting any attention other
than a close look by a pair of prowl-car cops who would
never know how close they came to a bonus and pro-
motion, and a business offer from a moonlighting
Washington secretary holding a lonely vigil at the Tube
entry. A wheelcab cruising the outer lane answered my
wave, pulled off on the loading strip.
"You licensed for DC?" I asked him.
"Whattaya, blind?" He pointed to a three-inch gold
sticker on his canopy. I got in and he gunned off toward
the lights of the bridge.
"You know Eisenhower Drive?" I asked.
"Does a mouse know cheese?" he came back, fast
and snappy.
"Number Nine Eighty-five," I said.
"Senator I. Albert Pulster," he said. I saw his eyes in
the mirror, watching me. "You know Pulster?"
"My brother-in-law," I said.
"Yeah?" He sounded impressed—like a car sales-
man getting the lowdown on a ten-year-old trade-in.
"Pulster's a big noise in this town these days," he said.
"Three years to election and you can't open a pictonews
without you get a mug shot of the guy. He's parlayed
that committee into a clear shot at the White House."
The control booth was a blaze of garish light across
the wet pavement ahead. The white-uniformed CIA

28
KEITH LAUMER
man was leaning out, letting me catch the dazzle of the
brass on his collar. The cab pulled up and the panel slid
down, letting in the cool river air. I handed over the ID
and the orders directing me to report to Fort McNair a
day earlier. He looked them over, turned, shoved the
card into the scope that transmitted the finger-print
image to the CBI master file, read off the name that
popped onto the four-inch screen. It would be mine—
the only risk at this point was that Tarleton had already
put a flag out on it. . . .
He hadn't. The guard held out a plain plastic rectan-
gle.
"Right thumb, please," he said in a bored voice. I
gave it to him; he pressed it on the sensitive plate,
shoved it into the same slot, got the same result. All
right so far. If he stopped now, I was in; if he went one
step farther and checked out the crystal pattern of the
card itself. . . .
"Hey," the driver shot a look at me. "He says he's
Pulster's brother-in-law."
"So?"
"I never heard of Pulster having no brother-in-law."
The CIA man gave him a heavy-lidded look. "Let's
you leave us do our job, fella; you stick to watching
those traffic signs." He handed me my phony papers,
pushed the button to raise the barrier, waved us on
across. My driver drove fast, shoulders hunched. He
didn't talk any more all the way out to Eisenhower.
Number Nine Eighty-five was a big iron gate with
twin baby spots mounted up high on an eight-foot field-
stone wall that looked solid enough to withstand a two
day mortar bombardment. A graveled drive led back
between hundred-year oaks to a lofty three-story fa-
cade gleaming a well-tended oyster-white in the faint
starlight. There was a porte-cochere high enough to
clear the footman on a four-horse carriage, wide enough
for three Caddies abreast. There were more windows
than I remembered on the west front at Versailles, a

WO RLDM ASTER
29
door reminiscent of the main entrance to Saint Peter's
Basilica, wide steps that were probably scrubbed five
times a day by English butlers using toothbrushes. Or
maybe not: maybe the servant problem had even pene-
trated as far as the Pulster residence.
I thumbed a button set in a black iron plate, jumped
when a feminine voice immediately said, "Yes, sir?"
"How do you know I'm not a madam?" I snapped
back.
"You don't have the build for it, sweetheart," the
voice said, sharp now. "You want to tell me what it's all
about, or do I just call a couple sets of law to help get
you straightened out?"
I squinted, spotted the eye up in the angle of the iron
curlicue at the top of the gate.
"I want to see the Senator," I said. "Wake him up if
you have to. It's important."
"Would there be a name?"
"Maclamore."
"Uh-huh. Army?"
"Navy. Captain Maclamore. Six-one, one-ninety
stripped, brown hair, brown eyes, and a nasty disposi-
tion. Hop to it."
"Not even one little old star? Captains we usually
take in batches of nine on alternate Wednesdays, and
this being Thursday... well, you see how it is."
"You're cute." I told the eye. "With a couple more
like you I could start a finishing school for snake
charmers. Now run along and tell Albert you're keeping
his favorite relative waiting out in the hot sun."
"Like that, huh?" the voice said coolly. "You could
have said so. What are you trying to do—lose me my
job?"
"It's a thought," I admitted. There was no answer. I
took a couple of steps, turned, took two back. The ten-
sion was building up again now. My small cuts and
burns were hurting like big ones; it was time for another
load of those nice drugs Purdy's medic had fed me. In-
stead all I had was the withdrawal symptoms, a letdown

30
KEITH LAUMER
of the past few hours' fever-bright energy into a high
singing sensation back of the eyes and a tendency to
start arguments with disembodied voices. ...
There was a buzz and a click and the gate rolled
back. I went through it, saw a small white-painted
wagon rolling along the drive toward me on fat rubber
wheels. It stopped and the voice was back.
"If you'll step aboard, sir ... ?"
I did and the robocart whisked me up to the steps,
past them, along to a ramp that slanted up behind
shrubbery to an open entry. I got off and went through
it into a wide airy hall full of a melancholy yellow light
from wide stained-glass panels above a gallery trimmed
in white-painted wrought-iron. A waxed and polished
girl with a pert brown face, pouty purple lips, and a cast
plastic hairdo came out of a carved door, waved toward
a chair that looked like a Scottish king might have been
crowned in it once.
"If you'll just be seated, Captain—"
"Still mad, huh? Where's his bedroom? I'll overlook
it if his hair's not combed—"
"Please, Captain Maclamore." She did a bump and
grind, showed me a fine set of big white teeth, came up
close, and let me get a load of the hundred-C-an-ounce
stuff she wore behind her ears. "The Senator will be
with you in just a moment...." Her voice changed tone
on the last words; she'd noticed the bruise on my jaw,
the patch of singed hair, the small cuts beside my eye
where an instrument face had blown out. I worked up a
quick smile that probably looked like the preliminary to
a death rattle.
"A little accident on the way over," I said. "But it's
all right. I got the other fellow's number."
A bell jangled then—or maybe it purred; it just
seemed to me like a jangle. The light was too bright, too
sour; the tick of an antique spring-driven clock picked
at me like a knifepoint. My cheap stiff clothes rasped on
my skin—
Feet rattled on the stairway behind me. I turned, and

WO RLDM ASTER
31
Senator I. Albert Pulster, short, dapper, red-faced, his
hair neatly combed, came across the floor, held out a
hand worn smooth by shaking.
"Well, Mac—a long time. Not since Edna's funeral, I
think	"
I shook the hand. It felt hard and dry, but no harder
or dryer than my own.
"I've got to talk to you, Albert," I said. "Fast and
private."
He nodded as though he'd been expecting it. "Ah ...
a personal matter... ?"
"As personal as dying."
He indicated the door the girl had come out of. I fol-
lowed him in.
Pulster's face looked hollow, as though all the juice
had been sucked out of it by a big spider, leaving only a
shell like crumpled tissue paper. All that in three min-
utes.
"Where is he now?" he asked in a voice as thin as his
face.
"My guess would be that he's in a closed-door con-
ference with some of his friends from the Hill. Natural-
ly, he'll try to do it the easy way first. Why walk over
Congress if he can bring them in with him?"
A little life was showing in Albert's eyes now, a little
color was coming back into his cheeks. He leaned for-
ward, clasped his hands together as though he was
afraid they'd get away.
"And he doesn't know you're here?" His voice was
quick now, emotionless, stripped for action.
"I'd guess he knows by now that I got off the ship.
Beyond that—it depends on how good his intelligence
apparatus is. He may have three squads with Mark Xs
trampling across the lawn right now."
Albert's mouth twitched. "No, he doesn't," he said
flatly. He fingered the edge of his desk, pulled out a big
drawer, swung it up on spring-balanced slides, pivoted
it to face me. It was a regulation battle-display console,

32
KEITH LAUMER
the kind usually installed in a two-man interceptor: it
showed four stretches of unoccupied lawn with foun-
tains and flowers. Below it was a fire-control panel that
would have done credit to a five-thousand-tonner.
"A man needs certain resources in these troubled
times," Albert said. "I've never proposed to furnish a
sitting target for the first Oswald who might rap at the
gate."
I nodded. "That's why I joined the Navy: too dan-
gerous down here." I pushed his toy back to him. "He's
counting on putting this over fast and smooth: the pub-
lic will wake up and it will be all over. The right publici-
ty in the right places—now—will kill him."
Albert was shaking his head, looking shocked. "Pub-
licity—no! Not a word, Mac. Good Lord, man—" He
clamped his teeth and breathed through his nose, look-
ing at me, through me; then he focused in, blinked a
couple of times.
"Mac, there's no time to waste. What kind of force
would it take to neutralize the flagship?" he snapped
out. "Assuming the worst: That Tarleton heard of the
move, was able to communicate with the vessel, that she
was fully alerted."
"A couple of hundred megaton-seconds," I said.
"With luck."
"I have no capital ships at my disposal," Albert
thought aloud. "I do have over one hundred battle-ready
medium recon units attached to National Guard organi-
zations in the Seventeenth District." He looked at me
hard. "What do you mean, Mac—with luck'?"
"Tarleton stripped the ship to make his Roman Holi-
day. There'll be skeleton crews on all sections. I don't
know who he left on the bridge: he brought all his top
boys down with him—he'd have to, otherwise he might
find himself looking down his own Hellbores. Assuming
a fairly competent man, he'll be able to lay down about
fifty-percent firepower—and as for maneuverability	"
"We can saturate her," Albert said. "Run her gaunt-
let, grapple to her, force an entry, and sweep her clean!

WO RLDM ASTER
33
And then"—Albert stopped, let his expression slide
back to the casual—"but we'll worry about that later.
Our immediate need—"
But he'd already done the damage. "You said 'after,' "
I told him. "Go on."
"Why, then, qf course, I'd restore matters to normal-
ity as soon as possible." He gave me a sharp look, like a
pawnbroker wondering if the customer knows the pearls
are real. "I think you could anticipate an appointment
to star rank—perhaps even—"
"Forget it, Albert," I said softly. "With fast action
and the kind of luck that makes Sweepstakes winners,
we might be able to get together enough firepower to hit
her once—now—while he's off-balance, before he ex-
pects anything—and knock her out. You've got your
hundred boats; if you can swing the North American
Defense Complex into it, we just might blanket her de-
fenses with one strike—"
"Mac, you're raving," Albert said flatly. "You don't
seem to understand—"
"That ship's a juggernaut hanging over all of us. I
think a call to Kajevnikoff might bring their South
American Net into it too—"
"You're talking like a traitor!" Pulster got to his
feet, his face back to its normal shade now.
"I'm taking that ship intact." He tried to get his
voice under control. "Be sensible, man! I'm offering
you command of the strike force. You needn't expose
yourself unnecessarily, of course. In fact, I'd expect you
to command from a safe distance, then move in after
boarding by my troops—"
"You're wasting time, Pulster," I told him. "Start the
ball rolling—now. One word—one hint to Tarleton,
and he'll neutralize every resource on the planet before
you can say 'dictator.' "
"What do you mean—dictator!"
"One's like another as far as I'm concerned. In fact,
between you and Banny, I might even pick him. I came
here to stop something, not barter it."

34
KEITH LAUMER
Albert's hand went to his console, stopped self-
consciously. He was thinking so hard I could almost
smell the wires burning. I took a step toward him, slid a
hand inside my coat as though I had something hidden
there.
"Get away from the desk, Senator," I said. He
backed slowly—toward the window.
"Uh-uh. Over there." I indicated the discreet door to
the senatorial john.
"Look here, Mac: this is too big to toss away like an
old coat. The man that controls that vessel, controls the
planet! It's almost in our hands! You did the right
thing, coming here—and I'll never forget it was you
who—"
I stepped in, hit him hard under the ribs to double
him over, brought a right up under his jaw hard enough
to lift his toes off the floor. He went back and down like
a shroud full of baseballs, lay on his back with one eye
half open. I didn't check to see whether he was breath-
ing; I hooked a finger in his collar, dragged him to the
toilet door, half threw him inside, set the latch, closed
it. I looked around the room. There was a mirror on
one wall with a table with flowers under it. I went over
to it and a hollow-eyed bum in a sleazy greenish-black
suit and a wilted collar looked out at me as though I'd
caught him in the act of murder.
"It's okay, pal," I said aloud, feeling my tongue thick
in my mouth. "That was just a warmup, almost an acci-
dent, you might say. The rough part's just beginning."
Back out in the big sad empty hall I told the girl that
the Senator had suffered a sudden pain in the stomach.
"He's in the john," I said bluntly. "Hiding, if you ask
me. Pain in the stomach, hah! A great thing when a fel-
low can't come to his own relations when he's had a lit-
tle run of bad luck."
The look that she'd varnished up for VIP use melted
away like witnesses at a traffic smash. I made it to the
door without a guide—no little cart appeared to ride me

WO RLDM ASTER
35
out to the gate. X walked, wondering how long it would
be before she went in—and whether she would know
which button to push on the console to sweep the drive
with fire.
But nothing happened: nobody yelled, no bells rang,
no guns fired. I reached the gate and the big electrolock
gave a buzz like a Bronx cheer as I went through. I
looked back at the eye: if it had been a mouth, it would
have yawned. There's nothing like a little poverty to
make a man invisible.
v
My last two Cs bought me a cab ride as far as Poto-
mac Quay. I made the three blocks to the Wellington
Arms on foot, trying not to hurry even when sirens
came screaming across from Pennsylvania Avenue and
three Monojag cop cars raced overhead, heading the
way I'd come. It was a fair guess that Miss Linoleum
had overcome her maidenly modesty sufficiently to force
the door not many minutes after I made it off the
grounds.
I went up the broad pseudomarble steps, past a Swiss
admiral with enough Austrian knots to equip a troop of
dragoons, in through a twelve-foot-high glass door,
crossed a stretch of polished black floor big enough for
the New Year's Yacht Show. Under the muted glare
strip that read inquiries I found a small neat man with
big dark eyes that flicked over me once and caught ev-
erything except the hole in my left sock.
"I have some information that has to be placed in the
Vice President's hands at once," I told him. "What can
you do for me?"
He reached without looking and slid a gold-mounted
pad and stylus across to me, spun it around so that
Wellington Arms was at the top, the pen poised ready
to be written with.
"If you'd care to leave a message—"
I put my face?closer to him. "I'm a little marked up;

36
KEITH LAUMER
you noticed that. I got that way getting here. It's that
kind of information. Take a chance and let me talk to
his secretary."
He hesitated, then reached for a small voice-only
communicator, gold to match the pad. I waited while he
played with the buttons out of sight over the counter,
murmured into the phone. Time passed. More discreet
conversation. Then he nodded.
"Mr. Lastwell will be down in a moment," he said.
"Or so he says," he added in a lower tone. "You've got
time for a smoke. You may even have time for a chow-
mein dinner."
"It's a corny line," I said, "but minutes could make a
difference. Maybe seconds."
The clerk gave me another X-ray look; this time I
figured he caught the hole in the sock. He leaned a little
across the counter, squared up the pad. "Political?" he
murmured.
"It's not show biz," I said mysteriously. "Or is it?"
That satisfied him. He went off to the other end of
the counter and began making entries in a card file.
Probably the names of people to be shot after the next
election. I looked at the clock: slim gold hands pointed
at gold dots representing half past one. There was a lot
of gold around the Wellington Arms.
He came through the bleached-teak doors from the
bar, a thin, tired-looking man, walking fast, frowning,
shoulders a little rounded, eyes whisking over the room
like mice. He saw me, checked his stride, looked me
over as he came up.
"I'm Marvin Lastwell. You're the person ... ?"
"Maclamore. Is the Vice President here?"
"Eh? Yes, of course he's here. If he were elsewhere,
I'd be with him, hmm? What was it you had, Mr., er,
Maclamore?"
"Do we talk here?"
He looked around as though he were surprised to
find himself in the lobby. "Hmm. There's a lounge just
along—"

WO RLDM ASTER
37
"This is private," I cut him off. "Let's go where it will
stay that way."
He sucked his cheeks in. "Now, look here, Mr., er,
Maclamore—"
"On the off chance this could be important, play
along this once, Mr. Lastwell. I can't spill this in front
of every pickup the local gossip ghouls have planted in
this mausoleum."
"Hmm. Very well, Mr., er, Maclamore." He led the
way off along a corridor carpeted in dove-gray pile deep
enough to lose a golfball in. I followed, wondering why
a mild-looking fellow like Marvin Lastwell thought it
necessary to carry a Browning 2mm under his arm.
The penthouse at the Wellington was no more ornate
than Buckingham Palace, and smaller, though not
much. Lastwell showed me into a spacious, dim-lit li-
brary lined with the kind of leather-bound books law-
yers keep around the office to impress the customers
and maybe open once in a while on a rainy afternoon
when trade is slow, just to see what they're missing.
Lastwell went behind a big dark mahogany desk, sat
down fussily, pushed a big silver ashtray with a cigar
butt off to one side, flicked on a lamp that threw an
eerie green reflection back up on his face, giving his
worried features a look of Satanic ferocity. I wondered
if he'd practiced it in front of a mirror.
"Now, Mr., er, Maclamore," he said, "what is it you
wanted to tell me?"
I was still standing, looking at the cigar butt, proba-
bly left there by the last ward-heeler who'd dropped in
to mend a fence. It looked as out of place on Lastwell's
desk as a roulette wheel at a Methodist retreat. He saw
me looking at it and started to reach for it, then
changed his mind, scratched his nose instead. I could
feel a sudden tension in him.
"Maybe I didn't make myself clear," I said. "It was
the Vice President I wanted to see."
Lastwell curved the corners of his mouth into a smile

38
KEITH LAUMER
like a meat-eating bird—or maybe it was just the light.
"Now, Captain, you can hardly—" He caught him-
self, clamped his jaw shut. The abrupt silence hung be-
tween us like a shout.
"Like that, huh?" I said softly.
He sighed, his hand hardly seemed to move, but now
the Browning was in it. He held the gun with that grace-
ful negligence they only get when they know how to use
them. He motioned with his head toward a chair.
"Just sit down," he said in an entirely new voice.
"You'll have a few minutes' wait."
I moved toward the chair he'd indicated; the gun
muzzle followed. It was too late at night to start think-
ing, but I made the attempt. The cigar was the skinny
black brand that Tarleton smoked. I'd probably missed
him by minutes. He hadn't been close behind me—he'd
been a good jump ahead. He's had time to give his pitch
—whatever proposition he'd worked out—to the Veep.
It had been a risky move, but it seemed the Veep had
listened. He'd mentioned me; as for how much he'd
said, the next few seconds would tell me that.
I reached the chair, but instead of sitting in it, I
turned to face Lastwell. The gun twitched alertly, hold-
ing low on my chest. That could be design—or acci-
dent.
"Maybe your boss would like to hear my side," I
said, just to keep him talking. "Maybe my angle's bet-
ter."
"Shut up and sit in the chair," Lastwell said, in the
tone of a tired teacher talking to the oldest pupil in the
eighth grade.
"Sit in it yourself," I came back. "The graveyard's
full of wise guys who didn't stick around to get the
whole story. Did Tarleton tell you I was Weapons Offi-
cer aboard Rapacious? Hell, die whole tub's wired to
blow at a signal from—"
"You were captain of Sagacious," Lastwell cut in.
"Save your lies, Maclamore—"

WO RLDM ASTER
39
"Not two years ago I wasn't, when she was fitted
out—"
"Save it," he said. Lastwell let his voice rise a decibel
and a half; the gun jerked up as he spoke, centered on
my chest now. I gave him a discouraged look, leaned
forward as though about to sit, and dived across the
desk. The Browning bucked and shrieked and a cannon
ball hit me in the chest and then my hands were on his
neck, sinking into doughy flesh, and we were going
down together, slamming the floor and the gun was
bouncing clear and then I was on my knees, with Last-
well bent back under me, his mouth open, tongue out,
eyes bulging like lanced boils.
"Talk it up," I ground out past my teeth. I gave him
a quarter of a second to think it over, then gave him a
thumb under the Adam's apple. A thin sound came
from him, like a rivet scoring a brake drum.
"He ... here ... half-hour...."
I gave him enough air to work with but not enough to
encourage enterprise.
"Who's here now?"
"No—nobody. Sent... them away."
"How many are in this?"
"Just ... the two of them. . .
"Plus you. Where are they?"
"They're . .. gone to see . . . others. Back soon. . . ."
"Tarleton coming back here?"
"No ... to his place." Lastwell gulped air, flopped
his arms. "Please ... my back. . . ."
I smiled at him. "Get ready to die," I said.
"No! Please!" What color was left went out of his
face like dirty water down a drain.
"Tell the rest," I snapped.
"He's . . . expecting you . . . there ... if I don't get
you ... here. State Police...."
"Say your prayers," I ordered. "When you wake up
in the next world, remember how it felt to die a dirty
death." I rammed my fingers in hard to the carotid ar-

40
KEITH LAUMER
teries, watched his eyes turn up; he slumped and I let
his head bump the carpet. He'd come around in half an
hour with a sore throat and a set of memories that he
could mull over at bedtime for a lot of sleepless nights.
I left him where he was, picked up the gun, tucked it
away. There was a chewed place across my coat front
where the needles had hit, a corresponding rip in the
shirt. The chromalloy plate underneath that covered the
artificial heart and lungs showed hardly a scratch to
commemorate the event. Six inches higher or to the left,
and he'd have found unshielded hide. It wasn't like
Banny Tarleton to forget to mention a detail like that.
Maybe he was slipping; maybe that was the break that
had let me get this far. Maybe I could ride it a little far-
ther, and maybe I was already out on the skim ice, too
far from shore to walk back.
I'd tried to stop Tarleton with indirect methods; they
hadn't worked. Now there was only one direction left:
straight ahead, into the trap he had laid.
Now I'd have to kill him with my own hands.
vi
I rummaged in Lastwell's closet, found a shapeless
tan waterproof and a narrow-brimmed hat. The private
elevator rode me down to the second floor. The silence
in the corridor was all that you'd expect for a hundred
Cs a day. I walked along to the rear of the building,
found a locked door to a service stair. There was a nice
manual knob on it; I gripped it hard, gave it a sharp
twist. Metal broke and tinkled, and the door swung in.
The luxury ended sharply at the threshold: there was a
scarred chair, a dirty coffee cup, a magazine, cigarette
butts on a concrete landing above a flight of narrow
concrete steps. I went down, passed another landing,
kept going. The stairs ended at a wooden door. I tried
it, stepped through into the shadows and the hum of
heavy equipment. A shoe scraped and a big-bellied man

WO RLDM ASTER
41
in a monogrammed coverall separated himself from the
gray bulk of a compressor unit. He frowned, wiped a
hand over a bald head, opened his mouth—
"Fire inspector," I told him briskly. "Goddamn place
is a deathtrap. That your chair on the landing?"
He gobbled, almost swallowed his toothpick, spat it
on the floor. "Yah, it's my chair—"
"Get it out of there. And police those butts while
you're at it." I jerked my head toward the back of the
big room. "Where's your fire exit?"
"Hah?"
"Don't stall," I barked. "Got it blocked, I'll bet. You
birds are all alike: think fire regulations are something
to wrap your lunch in."
He gave me a red-eyed look, hitched at his shoulder
strap. "Back here." His Potsdam accent was thick
enough to spread on pretzels like cream cheese. I fol-
lowed him along to a red-painted metal-clad door set a
foot above floor level.
"Red light's out," I noted, sharp as a mousetrap.
There was a big barrel bolt on the door at chest height.
I slid it back, jerked the door open. Dust and night air
whirled in.
"Okay, get that landing clear, like I said." I hooked a
thumb over my shoulder and stepped out into dead
leaves. He grunted and went away. I eased my head
above the ragged grass growing along the edge of the
stairwell; a security light on the side of the building
showed me a garbage-disposal unit, a white-painted
curb, the squat shape of a late model Turbocad parked
under a row of dark windows. I slid the Browning into
my hand, went up, across to the car. It was a four-seater,
dull black with a gold eagle on the door. I thumbed the
latch; no surprise there: it was locked. I went down on
my left side, eased under the curve of the hood. There
were a lot of wires; I traced one, jerked it loose, tapped
the frame; sparks jumped and a solid snick! sounded
above. I crawled back out, pulled open the door, slid in
behind the wheel. The switch resisted for a moment;

42
KEITH LAUMER
then something snapped and it turned. The turbos start-
ed up with a whine like a waitress looking at a half-C
tip. The Cad slid out along the drive, smooth as a por-
poise in deep water. I nosed out into the bleak light of
the polyarcs along the quay, took the inner lane, and
headed at a meticulously legal speed for Georgetown.
The fire of '87 had cleared away ten blocks of high-
class slums and given the culture-minded administration
of that day the perfect excuse to erect a village of colo-
nial-style official mansions that were as authentic as the
medals on a Vermouth bottle. Admiral Banastre Tarle-
ton had the one at the end of the line, a solid-looking
red-brick finish that disguised half an inch of flint steel,
with lots of pretty white woodwork, a copper-sheathed
roof made of bomb-proof polyon, and two neat little cu-
polas that housed some of the most sensitive detection
gear ever sidetracked from a naval yard. I picked it out
from two blocks away by the glare of lights from win-
dows on all three floors.
There was an intersection nostalgically lit by gas
flares on tall poles; I crossed it, slowed, moving along in
the shadow of a row of seventy-foot elms with concrete
cores and permanentized leaves. The moon was up now,
shedding its fairy glow on the bricked street, the wide
inorganic lawns, the stately fronts, creating a fragile il-
lusion of the simple elegance of a past age—if you
could ignore the lighted spires of the city looming up
behind.
The last house on the right before Tarleton's place
was a boxy planter's mansion with a row of stately col-
umns and a balcony from which a queen could wave to
the passing crowds. It was boarded up tight; not every-
body was willing to give up the comfort of a modern
apartment, a mile up in the Washington sky for the
dubious distinction of a Georgetown address. Half the
houses here were empty, shuttered, awaiting a bid from
a social-climbing freshman Congressman or a South
American diplomat eager to get a lease signed before

WO RLDM ASTER
43
the government that sent him collapsed in a hail of
gunfire.
There was a sudden movement among moon shad-
ows on the drive opposite the Tarleton house: a heavy
car appeared—armored, by the ponderous sway of its
suspension as it trundled out to block the street. It was
too late for me to think up any stunning moves that
would leave the opposition breathless; I cut the wheel
hard, swung into the artificial cinder drive that led up to
the bright-lit front of the Tarleton mansion. Behind me,
the interceptor gunned its turbos, closed in on my rear
bumper. Men appeared in the wide doorway ahead; I
caught glimpses of others spotted across the lawn that
was pool-table green in the splash of light from the
house. They ringed me in as I braked to a stop. I set the
brake hard, flung the door open, stepped out, gave my
coat belt a tug, picked out a middle-sized fellow with a
face as sensitive as a zinc bartop.
"Those clowns in the armor better get on the ball," I
told him. "I could have waltzed right past 'em. And
those boys you've got out trampling the flowerbeds: tell
'em to hit the dirt and stay put; they're not in a tango
contest—"
"Where do you fit the picture, mister?" His voice
was a whisper; I saw the scar across his throat, ear to
ear. He was a man who'd looked death in the eye from
razor range. He was looking at the car now, not liking it
much, but pushed a little off-balance by the eagle and
the words office of the central bureau of intel-
ligence.
I started around the front of the car, headed for the
stairs. "Hot stuff for the Admiral," I said. "He's inside,
right?"
He didn't move. I stopped before I rammed him.
"Maybe I better see some paper, mister," he whis-
pered. "Turn around and put the mitts on top of the
car."
"Pull up your socks, rookie," I advised loudly. "You
think I carry a card when I'm working?" I crowded him

44
KEITH LAUMER
a little. "Come on, come on, what I got won't wait." He
gave—about a quarter of an inch. "Any you boys know
this mug?" he called in his faint croak. His face was
close enough to mine to give me a good whiff of burnt
licorice: he was on the pink stuff. That wouldn't make
him any easier to take.
I saw heads shake; two or three voices denied the
pleasure of my acquaintance.
I hunched my shoulders. "I'm going in," I an-
nounced. "I got my orders from topside—"
Someone came out through the open door, saw me,
and stopped dead. For an instant I had trouble placing
the horsey weatherbeaten face under the brimless cap.
He opened his mouth, showing uneven brown teeth,
said "Hey!" It was Funderburk, the Warrant from the
flagship. I took the first half of a deep breath, nodded
toward him as casually as a pickpocket saying 'Good
morning' to a plainclothes cop.
"Ask him," I said. "He knows me."
Funderburk came down the steps, three or four ex-
pressions chasing each other over his face.
"Yeah," he said. He nodded, as if vastly satisfied.
"Yeah."
"You make this bird?" the scarred man whispered.
I tried to coax a little moisture into my dry mouth.
My minor wounds throbbed, but no worse than an
equal number of nerve cancers. I was hungry and tired,
but Scott had probably felt at least as bad, writing the
last page of his journal on the ice cap; my head
throbbed a little, but one of those ancient Egyptians
whose family doc had sawed his skull open with a stone
knife would have laughed it off.
"Sure," Funderburk said from under a curled lip.
"Gronski. Anchorman of the section. Two months ago
they plant the slob in my outfit, and I guess I ain't hard-
ly seen the guy three times since." He spat, offside, but
just barely. "The Commodore's Number-One Boy. Bet-
ter play it closer than a skin-diver's tights, Ajax. He's a
privileged character, he is."

WO RLDM ASTER
45
There was a mutter in which I caught the word
'Braze.' I poked Ajax with a finger.
"I'll mention you were doing a job," I said. "But
don't work it to death." I brushed past him and past
Funderburk, went up the steps and through the door.
No power guns roared. No large dogs came bounding
out to sample my leg. Nobody even hit me over the
head with a blackjack. So far, so good.
One man was walking behind me, one on my right. I
went across the wide Wedgwood-blue reception hall,
past a gilt-framed mirror that showed me a glimpse of
a pale unshaven face with eyes like char-wounds. He
looked like Mussolini just before the crowd got him.
The stairs were carpeted in wine red that somehow
didn't clash with the walls; maybe it was the soft yellow
light from a tinkly glass chandelier that hung on a long
gold chain from somewhere high above. The banister
was wide and cool and white under my hand. The foot-
steps of the two goons thumped on the treads behind me.
I passed a landing with a tall double-hung window
with lacy curtains and dark drapes, a painting of a small
boy in red velvet pants, a weathered-oak clock that
didn't tick. Then I was coming up into a wide hall done
in dusty green with big white-painted wood panel doors
with bright brass knobs. A man sat in a chair at the end
beside a curved-leg Sheraton table with a brass ashtray
from which a curl of smoke went up under a green-
shaded lamp. There was a power gun in his lap. He
watched me come, his hands on the gun.
One of the doors was open; voices came from inside.
I felt like a man striding briskly toward the gallows, but
the thin bluff I was riding couldn't survive any doubts or
hesitations at this point. I went on, turned in at the
lighted door, and was in a big high-ceilinged room with
a desk, heavy leather-covered chairs, bookcases, a bar
in one corner. Three men standing there looked around
at me. Two of them I'd never seen before, the third was

46
KEITH LAUMER
a captain whose name I couldn't remember. He frowned
at me, looked at the others.
"Where's the admiral?" the man behind me asked.
Nobody answered. The captain was still frowning at
me. "I've seen you before," he said. "Who are you—?"
"Guy named Gronski," my escort said. "The Com-
modore's dog-robber."
"You have a message from Commodore Braze?" one
of the other men asked sharply.
"I want to see the Admiral," I said, looking stubborn.
"I've already told Ajax this is a red-hot item—"
"You can tell it again—" the third man snapped.
"I'm Admiral Tarleton's aide—"
"And I'm bad news from back home," I snarled.
"I'm not up here to jackass around with a front man—"
I whirled on the captain. "Can't you people get the mes-
sage? This is hot!"
The Captain's eyes went to the door in the wall be-
hind me. "He's just stepped down the hall," he said un-
easily. "He's—"
"Never mind that, Johnson," the aide snapped out.
"I'll inform him—"
"We'll both inform him," the captain said. "I'm as-
signed here as exec—"
"Save the jurisdictional wrangles until later," the
other man cut in. "If this is as important as this fellow
seems to think—"	,
"It's worse," I barked. "I'm warning you bastards
somebody's gonna suffer. . . ."
The aide and the captain slammed down their glasses
and stamped out of the room, neck and neck. I poked a
finger at the two who had escorted me. "All right, get
back on post," I rapped out. "Believe me, when I tell
the admiral. . . ." They faded away like shadows at sun-
set. The man at the bar had his mouth open. I walked
across to him, looking confidential.
"There's one other little thing," I started as I came
up to him—and chopped out with the side of my hand,

WO RLDM ASTER
47
caught him across the cheekbone. He almost leaped the
bar. Glasses went flying, but thudded almost silently to
the rug. I dragged him behind the bar, went across to
the connecting door, gave the knob a hard twist. I al-
most broke my wrist.
Out in the hall the two who had gone out were no-
where in sight; the gun-handler still sat his chair beside
the lamp. I gave him a hard look as though wondering
whether he'd shaved that morning, strode along to the
next door, reached for it—
"Hey!" He came out of his chair, gun forward. "Get
away from that door!"
I turned toward him as he came up, jumped side-
ways, and kicked out. The burst caught me across the
shin, slammed me back against the wall. My head hit
hard and brilliant constellations shimmered all around.
I clawed, swam up from abyssal deeps where light never
penetrated, saw him stepping back, the gun still aimed.
Someone yelled—a high tight string of words. Feet
pounded. There was a harsh reek of burnt synthetics. I
rolled over on my face, got my hands under me. I was
staring at the big white door when it opened inward.
Admiral Banastre Tarleton stood there, a Norge stun-
ner in his hand. Without pausing to calculate the odds, I
planted both feet against the wall behind me, launched
myself at his knees. I heard the soft whisper of the
Norge as I hit, and the crisper sound of something tear-
ing in his leg, and then we were dpwn together and the
stunner hissed again and my left side was dead, but I
rolled clear, scrabbled with one arm, saw a man in the
doorway just as I caught the edge of the thick metal
panel, hurled it shut with what was left of my strength.
The dull boom! shut off the outside world as complete-
ly as the lid of a coffin.
I looked around. Tarleton was on his back, his head
propped up at an awkward angle against the leg of a
canopied four-poster bed. His face was as white as
bleached bone, and the Norge was in his fist, aimed
square at my face.

48
KEITH LAUMER
"I don't know how you got here, Mac," he said in a
voice forced high by the agony of a broken knee. "I
must have more traitors in my organization than I
thought."
"Glad to see you still have your sense of humor,
Banny," I said. I thought about trying for the Browning,
but it was just a thought. The stunner held on me as
steadily as a deck gun. There was a little sensation in
the shoulder where it had caught me; a feeling as
though a quarter of beef had been stitched on with a
dull needle to replace the scorched arm. My legs were
all right, with the exception of the burned plastic and
scorched metal below my knee where the power gun
had seared it.
"A traitor is a revolutionary who fails," Tarleton
stated. "We won't fail."
"Now it's 'we,'" I noted. "A few hours ago it was
all 'I.'"
"I'm not alone now, Mac. I've talked to people.
Not a shot will be fired."
I nodded. "How does it feel, Banny? In a few hours
you'll own the world. You and Napoleon. Take it apart
and put it back together to suit yourself. More fun than
jigsaw puzzles any day. And you'll have CBI men walk-
ing ten deep around you. No more broken legs from
wild-eyed reformers who walk into your bedroom past
what you call an organization." I was talking to hear
myself, to keep my mind off what was coming, to defer
for another few seconds the only end the scene could
have.
"You moved fast, Mac. I thought"— The gun wa-
vered, then steadied—"thought I had a few secrets."
"Tough, not being able to tip your hand. All that
power—if you just don't give it away before the hook's
set."
There was a muffled pounding, faint and far away.
Tarleton jerked his head up. I could almost make out
voices, shouting.

WO RLDM ASTER
49
"Get over there," Tarleton ordered. "Open that
door."
I shook my head. "Open it yourself, Banny. They're
your friends."
He moved, and his cheekbones went almost green.
The gun sagged and my hand was halfway to the nee-
dier before he caught it. There was greasy-looking sweat
on his face. His voice was a croak. "Better do it, Mac.
If I feel myself blacking out, I'll have to shoot you."
I didn't say anything. I was wondering why he hadn't
shot already. He stared at me for five seconds, while I
waited. . . .
Then he twisted, reached up and back, fumbled over
the bedside table and suddenly sound was blasting into
the room:
"—open! The fire's into the stairwell! Can you hear
me, Admiral? We can't get the door open—"
"Benny!" Tarleton snapped as the shout cut off.
"Blast the door down. I'm hurt. I can't get to it!" He
flipped keys.
"I got him," the voice snapped. "Admiral, listen to
me: you have to get it open from your side! There's
nothing out here bigger than a Mark X—it'll never cut
that chromalloy!"
"Get in here, Benny!" Tarleton's voice was a hoarse
roar. "Don't give a damn how you do it, but get in
here!"
There were many voices yelling together now.
"—out of here!"
"—too late. Let it go, Rudy!"
"—all roast together!"
"—son of a bitch is out of his mind!"
There was a loud crash, as though a heavy table had
gone over, scuffling noises, a cracking roar. Banny
flicked it off. His eyes were on mine. "Jacobs was al-
ways a little careless with a weapon," he said in a voice
like dry leaves.
"A good man," I said. "Reflexes like a cat. Damn
near got my kneecap."

50
KEITH LAUMER
"And morals to match. It was my fault; I should have
warned him about the house. Genuine antiques: wood,
varnish, cloth. With the right draft there'll be nothing
left but a red-hot shell in half an hour."
"You've been forgetting a lot of things, Banny. Like
telling your boys where to aim to stop me. You wouldn't
have liked the look on Lastwell's face when he put a
burst into my chest."
"You must have wanted to get me pretty badly,
Mac." He tossed the stunner aside. "It looks like you
get your wish. Save yourself—if it's not too late."
He watched me get to my feet; my paralyzed
shoulder felt as though my Siamese twin had just been
sawed off, and I missed him. The dead hand bumped
my side.
"Just the one way down?"
"Service stairs at the back."
There was a tiled bathroom visible through a half-
open door. I flipped on the water in the big old-style
bathtub, came back out, and hauled a wool blanket off
the bed.
"Get going, damn you," Tarleton said in a blurred
voice. "No . . . time. . . ." His head went sideways and
he hit the floor with a thud like a split log. That was
good: it would be easier for him that way. He'd been
keeping himself conscious on pure willpower; he
wouldn't be needing that now.
The blanket wanted to float. I shoved it under, re-
membering the sound of the fire bellowing in the hall. I
could almost hear it through the soundproofing now.
Precious seconds were passing. . ..
Back in the bedroom Banny Tarleton lay on his side,
his mouth open, eyes shut. He didn't look like a world-
beater now; he looked like a fellow who had had a bad
dream and fallen out of bed.
He was heavy. I pulled him onto the wet blanket,
rolled him in it with a double fold over his head, hoisted
him onto my shoulder—a neat trick with one good arm,
when I couldn't tell the shoulder was there, except for

WO RLDM ASTER
51
the feeling of needles prickling along the edge of the
paralyzed area. The door seemed a long way off. I
reached it, put my working hand against it; it hissed.
That didn't change anything: I thumbed the electrolock,
heard the grumble inside the armored panel. The knob
turned, and the door bucked back against me, driven by
a solid wall of black-and-orange flame. I shielded my
face as well as I could with one hand and a flap of blan-
ket and walked out into it.
The sound was all around me like the thunder of a
scarlet Niagara. Under my feet the floorboards were
warped and buckled. Pain slashed at me like gale-driven
sleet, like frozen knives raking at my face, my back, my
thighs. . . .
A section of plaster fell in front of me with a dull
boom, drove back the flames for an instant, and through
the smoke I saw a once-white balustrade beside the
stair, a smoking wraith of blackened iron now. Through
a dervish-mad whirl of pale fire, I saw the chandelier, a
snarl of black metal from which glass dripped like sun-
bright water. The clock stood upright on the landing,
burning proudly, like a martyred monk. Beside it, the
boy in red pants curled, fumed, was gone in a leap of
white fire. Charred steps crumbled under my foot and I
staggered; the smell of burning wool was rank in my
throat. I could see the varnished floor below, with fire
running over it like burning brandy on a pudding, a
black crescent moving out behind to consume the bright
wood. Somewhere above there was a thunderous smash,
and the air was filled with whirling fireflies. Something
large and black fell past me, bounced along the floor
ahead. I stepped over it, felt a ghostly touch of cool air,
and suddenly the flames were gone from'around me,
and over the surf-roar of the fire I heard thin cries that
seemed to come from a remote distance.
"Sweet Mother of Christ!" a high womanish voice
wailed. "Look at the poor devil! He's burned as black
as a tar mop!"

52
KEITH LAUMER
There was a smoke-blurred figure before me, and
then others, and then the weight was gone from my
back and I took another step but there seemed to be
something wrong with my feet, and I was falling, falling,
like a star burning its fiery path across a night sky. . . .
vii
I was afloat in cool waters, listening to the distant
rumble of thunder portending gentle rain. Then the
rumble was a voice, coming from far away on some
frosty white mountaintop sparkling in the blue sky. I
was flying, soaring down from the icy heights—or was it
the cool translucent depths from which I floated up to-
ward light, warmth, pain. . ..
I opened my eyes, saw a vague cloudy shape hover-
ing over me.
"How are you feeling Mac?" Admiral Banastre
Tarleton's voice asked.
"Like a barbecued steer," I said—but no sound came
out. Or maybe I grunted.
"Don't try to talk," Tarleton said quickly. "You
breathed a lot of smoke, got some fire in your lungs.
You're lucky they were made in a factory."
I had the impression someone had come up, muttered
to Tarleton. Then he was back.
"You're at Bethesda. They tell me you're out of
danger. You were out for eighteen hours. Second-
degree burns on the face, the left hand, the back of your
thighs. The coat you were wearing helped. Some kind of
expanded polymer job. Bioprosthetics are having a
swell time clucking over how their work stood up to the
fire. Both legs were melted back to bare metal, and the
right elbow was fused. They'll have a new set ready for
you in about two weeks, when the bandages come off.
You won't even have scars."
I tried again, managed a croak. My throat felt like
rawhide dried in the desert sun.
"You'll be wondering about how certain things have

WO RLDM ASTER
53
gone, Mac," Tarleton went on. "Funny thing, after the
fire there seemed to be a certain temporary loss of mo-
mentum in the movement. I guess my little band of
gentleman-adventurers used up all their drive running
out on me when things got hot. My own perspective got
a little warped: I had to keep reminding myself that in a
society of maniacs, the sane man has a duty to rule.
And those lads who got the hell out when the flames got
knee-high: they did the sane thing. You can't fight that.
It took a crazy man to walk through the fire for me."
It was a long speech. I had a long one of my own
ready: I was going to tell him all about how it had been
a mistake to rush me to the hospital, because as soon as
I could walk, I'd have to come after him to finish what
I'd started; that sick or well, sane or crazy, there were
things loose in the world that were worse than man's
animal ferocity, and one of them was the ferocity of the
Righteous Intellect; and that the most benevolent of des-
potisms rotted in the end into the blind arrogance of
tyranny. . . .
But all I managed was a whimper like a sick pup.
The frosty haze was closing in again. Tarleton's voice
came from far away, as far as the stars: "I have an ap-
pointment with the Vice President now, Mac. I'll have
to explain some things to him. Maybe he'll understand,
maybe not. Maybe things have gone too far. Whichever
way it goes, I'd like to leave one thought with you:
Theories are beautiful things—simple and precise as cut
glass—as long as they're only theories. When you find
in your hand the power to make them come true . . .
suddenly, it's not so simple. . . ."
Then he was gone, and the snow was drifting over
me, silent and deep.
It was hours later, I don't know how many. I was half
awake, reasonably clearheaded, wondering if Tarleton
had really been there, or if I had dreamed the whole
passage. There was a tri-D screen by the bed, playing
the kind of soft music that's guaranteed not to intrude

54
KEITH LAUMER
on the bridge-table conversation. It stopped abruptly in
mid-moan and a voice harsh with excitement broke in:
"We interrupt this program to bring you the follow-
ing bulletin: The Vice President has been assassinated
and the Secretaries of Defense and State and the Attor-
ney General as well as a number of lesser officials cut
down in a burst of gunfire that shattered a secret meet-
ing of the National Defense Council at two-nineteen
p.m. Eastern Standard Time today—less than ten min-
utes ago. An unofficial statement by a newsman who
was first on the scene indicates that a heavy-caliber ma-
chine pistol smuggled into the Capitol by Admiral
Banastre Tarleton was the massacre weapon. Tarleton,
still heavily bandaged from yesterday's fire and with a
cast on his leg, is reported to have died in the answering
fire from a Secret Service man who broke down a door
to gain entry to the room. A spokesman for the CBI
stated that Admiral Tarleton, a national hero since his
destruction of Bloc naval forces in a deep-space battle
two days ago, apparently broke under the double trage-
dy of the loss of the majority of his forces in the fight-
ing, followed by the disastrous fire which swept his
Georgetown home—"
The sound cut off then. I got an eyelid up, made out
the hovering figure of a man in pale-green hospital togs.
He fumbled at my left arm, made soothing noises, and
things got vague again. . . .
Voices picked at me. I came back from soft cool
shadowland, saw faces floating like pink moons above
me. I recognized one of them: Nulty, Under-Secretary
of Defense.
. . ranking surviving officer," he was saying. "As
senior line captain since the terrible losses in Monday's
engagement . . . assured you'll be fit for duty in three
weeks . . . temporary rank of vice admiral. . . grave cri-
sis. ..." His voice faded in and out. Other voices seemed
to come and go. Time passed. Then I was awake, feel-
ing the artificial clearheadedness of drug-induced alert-
ness. Nulty was sitting beside the bed.

WO RLDM ASTER
55
"... hope you've understood what we've been saying,
Maclamore," he said. "It's of vital importance that the
flagship be fully operational as soon as possible. I've
posted Captain Selkirk to her as acting CO until you
could assume command. We don't know what the Bloc
may be doing at this moment, but it's vital that our de-
fensive posture not be permitted to deteriorate, in spite
of the terrible tragedies that have struck us."
"Why me?" I managed.
"All but a handful of staff officers of flag rank were
lost in the fight," he said in a voice that quivered with
tension and fatigue. "The President agreed; you're
Academy-trained, with vast operational experience—"
"What about Braze?"
"He ... was one of those lost in the assassination."
"So now Rapacious is my baby . . . ?"
"I'm hoping you'll be able to board her within a day
or two. I've ordered special medical facilities installed,
and the surgeon general has agreed you can complete
your convalescence there. I have reports for you to
read, Maclamore. The Bloc is aware of the confusion
here. They'll be wasting no time. . . ." His face was
close to me, worried.
"What will you do, Admiral?" he demanded. "You'll
be commanding the entire surviving armed force of the
UN. What will you do . . . ?"
A man in green came then and whispered, and Nulty
went away. The lights went off. It was late; the shadows
of evening were long on the walls.
I lay in the darkness and pondered my reply.

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
I
It was different this time. There was a dry pain in my
lungs, and a deep ache in my bones, and a fire in my
stomach that made me want to curl into a ball and mew
like a kitten. My mouth tasted as though mice had nest-
ed in it, and when I took a deep breath, wooden knives
twisted in my chest.
I made a mental note to tell Mackenzie a few things
about his pet controlled-environment tank—just as
soon as I got out of it. I squinted at the overface panel:
air pressure, temperature, humidity, O-level, blood
sugar, pulse, and respiration—all okay. That was
something. I flipped the intercom key and said,
"Okay, MacKenzie, let's have the story. You've got
problems. ..."
I had to stop to cough. The exertion made my tem-
ples pound.
"How long have you birds run this damned exer-
cise?" I called. "I feel lousy. What's going on around
here?"
No answer.
This was supposed to be the terminal test series.
They couldn't all be out having coffee. The equipment
had more bugs than a two-dollar hotel room. I slapped
the emergency release lever. Mackenzie wouldn't like it,
but to hell with it! From the way I felt, I'd been in the

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
57
tank for a good long stretch this time—maybe a week
or two. And I'd told Ginny it would be a three-dayer at
the most. Mackenzie was a great technician, but he had
no more human emotions than a used-car salesman.
This time I'd tell him.
Relays were clicking, equipment was reacting, the
tank cover sliding back. I sat up and swung my legs
aside, shivering suddenly.
It was cold in the test chamber. I looked around at
the dull gray walls, the data recording cabinets, the
wooden desk where Mac sat by the hour rerunning test
profiles—
That was funny. The tape reels were empty and the
red equipment light was off. I stood, feeling dizzy.
Where was Mac? Where were Banner and Day and
Mallon?
"Hey!" I called. I didn't even get a good echo.
Someone must have pushed the button to start my re-
covery cycle; where were they hiding now? I took a
step, tripped over the cables trailing behind me. I un-
strapped and pulled the harness off. The effort left me
breathing hard. I opened one of the wall lockers; Ban-
ner's pressure suit hung limply from the rack beside a
rag-festooned coat hanger. I looked in thtee more lock-
ers. My clothes were missing—even my bathrobe. I also
missed the usual bowl of hot soup, the happy faces of
the techs, even Mac's sour puss. It was cold and silent
and empty here—more like a morgue than a top-priori-
ty research center.
I didn't like it. What the hell was going on?
There was a weather suit in the last locker. I put it
on, set the temperature control, palmed the door open
and stepped out into the corridor. There were no lights,
except for the dim glow of the emergency route indica-
tors. There was a faint foul odor in the air.
I heard a dry scuttling, saw a flick of movement. A
rat the size of a red squirrel sat up on his haunches and
looked at me as if I were something to eat. I made a
kicking motion and he ran off, but not very far.

58
KEITH LAUMER
My heart was starting to thump a little harder now.
The way it does when you begin to realize that some-
thing's wrong—bad wrong.
Upstairs in the Admin Section, I called again. The
echo was a little better here. I went along the corridor
strewn with papers, past the open doors of silent rooms.
In the Director's office, a blackened wastebasket stood
in the center of the rug. The air-conditioner intake
above the desk was felted over with matted dust nearly
an inch thick. There was no use shouting again.
The place was as empty as a robbed grave—except
for the rats.
At the end of the corridor the inner security door
stood open. I went through it and stumbled over some-
thing. In the faint light it took me a moment to realize
what it was.
He had been an M.P., in steel helmet and boots.
There was nothing left but crumbled bone and a few
scraps of leather and metal. A .38 revolver lay nearby. I
picked it up, checked the cylinder and tucked it in the
thigh pocket of the weather suit. For some reason it
made me feel a little better.
I went on along B corridor and found the lift door
sealed. The emergency stairs were nearby. I went to
them and started the two-hundred-foot climb to the sur-
face.
The heavy steel doors at the tunnel had been blown
clear. -
I stepped past the charred opening, looked out at a
low gray sky burning red in the west. Fifty yards away,
the five-thousand-gallon water tank lay in a tangle of
rusty steel. What had it been? Sabotage, war, revolu-
tion—an accident? And where was everybody?
I rested for a while, then went across the innocent-
looking fields to the west, dotted with the dummy build-
ings that were supposed to make the site look from the
air like another stretch of farmland complete with
barns, sheds, and fences. Beyond the site the town

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
59
seemed intact: there were lights twinkling here and
there, a few smudges of smoke rising.
Whatever had happened at the site, at least Ginny
would be all right—Ginny and Tim. Ginny would be
worried sick, after—how long? A month?
Maybe more. There hadn't been much left of that
soldier. . . .
I twisted to get a view to the south, and felt a hollow
sensation in my chest. Four silo doors stood open: the
Colossus missiles had hit back—at something. I pulled
myself up a foot or two higher for a look at the Primary
Site. In the twilight the ground rolled smooth and un-
broken across the spot where Prometheus lay ready in
her underground berth. Down below she'd be safe and
sound, maybe. She had been built to stand up to the
stresses of a direct extrasolar orbital launch; with any
luck a few near-misses wouldn't have damaged her.
My arms were aching from the strain of holding on. I
climbed down and sat on the ground to get my breath,
watching the cold wind worry the dry stalks of dead
brush around the fallen tank.
At home Ginny would be alone, scared, maybe even
in serious difficulty. There was no telling how far mu-
nicipal services had broken down. But before I headed
that way, I had to make a quick check on the ship. Pro-
metheus was a dream that I—and a lot of others—had
lived with for three years. I had to be sure.
I headed toward the pillbox that housed the tunnel
head on the off chance that the car might be there.
It was almost dark and the going was tough: the con-
crete slabs under the sod were tilted and dislocated.
Something had sent a ripple across the ground like a
stone tossed into a pond.
I heard a sound and stopped dead. There was a clank
and rumble from beyond the discolored walls of the
blockhouse a hundred yards away. Rusted metal
howled; then something as big as a beached freighter
moved into view.

60
KEITH LAUMER
Two dull red beams glowing near the top of the high
silhouette swung, flashed crimson and held on me. A
siren went off—an ear-splitting whoop! whoop! whoop!
It was an unmanned Bolo Mark II Combat Unit on
automated sentry duty—and its intruder-sensing cir-
cuits were tracking me.
The Bolo pivoted heavily; the whoop! whoop! sound-
ed again; the robot watchdog was bellowing the alarm.
I felt sweat pop out on my forehead. Standing up to a
Mark II Bolo without an electropass was the rough
equivalent of being penned in with an ill-tempered dino-
saur. I looked toward the Primary blockhouse: too far.
The same went for the perimeter fence. My best bet was
back to the tunnel mouth. I turned to sprint for it,
hooked a foot on a slab and went down hard. ...
I got up, my head ringing, tasting blood in my mouth.
The chipped pavement seemed to rock under me. The
Bolo was coming up fast. Running was no good; I had
to have a better idea.
I dropped flat and switched my suit control to maxi-
mum insulation.
The silvery surface faded to dull black. A two-foot
square of tattered paper fluttered against a projecting
edge of concrete; I reached for it, peeled it free, then
fumbled with a pocket flap, brought out a permatch,
flicked it alight. When the paper was burning well, I
tossed it clear. It whirled away a few feet, then caught
in a clump of grass.
"Keep moving, damn you!" I whispered. The swear-
ing worked. The gusty wind pushed the paper on. I
crawled a few feet and pressed myself into a shallow de-
pression behind the slab. The Bolo churned closer; a
loose treadplate was slapping the earth with a rhythmic
thud. The burning paper was fifty feet away now, a
twinkle of orange light in the deep twilight.
At twenty yards, looming up like a pagoda, the Bolo
halted, sat rumbling and swiveling its rust-streaked tur-

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
61
ret, looking for the radiating source its IR had first
picked up. The flare of the paper caught its electronic
attention. The turret swung, then back. It was puzzled.
It whooped again, then reached a decision.
Ports snapped open. A volley of antipersonnel slugs
whoofed into the target; the scrap of paper disappeared
in a gout of tossed dirt.
I hugged the ground like gold lame hugs a torch
singer's hip and waited; nothing happened. The Bolo
sat, rumbling softly to itself. Then I heard another
sound over the murmur of the idling engine, a distant
roaring, like a flight of low-level bombers. I raised my
head half an inch and took a look. There were lights
moving beyond the field—the paired beams of a convoy
approaching from the town.
The Bolo stirred, moved heavily forward until it
towered over me no more than twenty feet away. I saw
gun ports open high on the armored facade—the ones
that housed the heavy infinite repeaters. Slim black
muzzles slid into view, hunted for an instant, then
depressed and locked.
They were bearing on the oncoming vehicles that
were spreading out now in a loose skirmish line under a
roiling layer of dust. The watchdog was getting ready to
defend its territory—and I was caught in the middle. A
blue-white floodlight lanced out from across the field,
glared against the scaled plating of the Bolo. I heard re-
lays click inside the monster fighting machine, and
braced myself for the thunder of her battery....
There was a dry rattle.
The guns traversed, clattering emptily. Beyond the
fence the floodlight played for a moment longer against
the Bolo, then moved on across the ramp, back, across,
and back, searching. . . .
Once more the Bolo fired its empty guns. Its red IR
beams swept the scene again; then relays snicked, the
impotent guns retracted, the port closed.
Satisfied, the Bolo heaved itself around and moved

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
off, trailing a stink of ozone and ether, the broken tread
thumping like a cripple on a stair.
I waited until it disappeared in the gloom two
hundred yards away, then cautiously turned my suit
control to vent off the heat. Full insulation could boil a
man in his own gravy in less than half an hour.
The floodlight had blinked off now. I got to my hands
and knees and started toward the perimeter fence. The
Bolo's circuits weren't tuned as fine as they should have
been: it let me go.
There were men moving in the glare and dust, be-
yond the rusty lacework that had once been a chain-
link fence. They carried guns and stood in tight little
groups, staring across toward the blockhouse.
I moved closer, keeping flat and avoiding the avenues
of yellowish light thrown by the headlamps of the
parked vehicles—halftracks, armored cars, a few light
manned tanks.
There was nothing about the look of this crowd that
impelled me to leap up and be welcomed. They wore
green uniforms, and half of them sported beards. What
the hell: had Castro landed in force?
I angled off to the right, away from the big main gate
that had been manned day and night by guards with
tommyguns. It hung now by one hinge from a scarred
concrete post, under a cluster of dead polyarcs in cor-
roded brackets. The big sign that had read glenn
aerospace center	authorized personnel only
lay face down in the hip-high underbrush.
More cars were.coming up. There was a lot of talk
and shouting; a squad of men formed and headed my
way, keeping to the outside of the fallen fence.
I was outside the glare of the lights now. I chanced a
run for it, got over the sagged wire and across a pot-
holed blacktop road before they reached me. I crouched
in the ditch and watched as the detail dropped men in
pairs at fifty-yard intervals.

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
63
Another five minutes and they would have intercept-
ed me—along with whatever else they were after.
I worked my way back across an empty lot and found
a strip of lesser underbrush lined with shaggy trees, be-
neath which a patch of cracked sidewalk showed here
and there.
Several things were beginning to be a little clearer
now: The person who had pushed the button to bring
me out of stasis hadn't been around to greet me, be-
cause no one pushed it. The automatics, triggered by
some malfunction, had initiated the recovery cycle.
The system's self-contained power unit had been de-
signed to maintain a starship crewman's minimal vital
functions indefinitely, at reduced body temperature and
metabolic rate. There was no way to tell exactly how
long I had been in the tank. From the condition of the
fence and the roads, it had been more than a matter of
weeks—or even months.
Had it been a year ... or more? I thought of Ginny
and the boy, waiting at home—thinking the old man
was dead, probably. I'd neglected them before for my
work, but not like this. . . .
Our house was six miles from the base, in the foot-
hills on the other side of town. It was a long walk, the
way I felt—but I had to get there.
II
Two hours later I was clear of the town, following the
riverbank west.
I kept having the idea that someone was following
me. But when I stopped to listen, there was never any-
thing there; just the still, cold night, and the frogs, sing-
ing away patiently in the low ground to the south.
When the ground began to rise, I left the road and
struck off across the open field. I reached a wide street,
followed it in a curve that would bring me out at the
foot of Ridge Avenue—my street. I could make out the
shapes of low rambling houses now.

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
It had been the kind of residential section the local
Junior Chamber members had hoped to move into some
day. Now the starlight that filtered through the cloud
cover showed me broken windows, doors that sagged
open, automobiles that squatted on flat dead tires under
collapsing car shelters—and here and there a blackened
weed-grown foundation, like a gap in a row of rotting
teeth.
The neighborhood wasn't what it had been. How
long had I been away? How long . . . ?
I fell down again, hard this time. It wasn't easy get-
ting up. I seemed to weigh a hell of a lot for a guy who
hadn't been eating regularly. My breathing was very fast
and shallow now, and my skull was getting ready to
split and give birth to a live alligator—the ill-tempered
ldnd. It was only a few hundred yards more; but why
the hell had I picked a place halfway up a hill?
I heard the sound again—a crackle of dry grass. I got
the pistol out and stood flatfooted in the middle of the
street, listening hard.
All I heard was my stomach growling. I took the pis-
tol off cock and started off again, stopped suddenly a
couple of times to catch him off guard: nothing. I
reached the corner of Ridge Avenue, started up the
slope. Behind me a stick popped loudly.
I picked that moment to fall down again. Heaped
leaves saved me from another skinned knee. I rolled
over against a low fieldstone wall and propped myself
against it. I had to use both hands to cock the pistol. I
stared into the dark, but all I could see were the little
lights whirling again. The pistol got heavy; I put it
down, concentrated on taking deep breaths and blinking
away the fireflies.
I heard footsteps plainly, close by. I shook my head,
accidentally banged it against the stone behind me. That
helped. I saw him, not over twenty feet away, coming
up the hill toward me, a black-haired man with a full
beard, dressed in odds and ends of rags and furs, grip-
ping a polished club with a leather thong.

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
65
I reached for the pistol, found only leaves, tried
again, touched the gun and knocked it away. I was still
groping when I heard a scuffle of feet. I swung around,
saw a tall, wide figure with a mane of untrimmed hair.
He hit the bearded man like a pro tackle taking out
the practice dummy. They went down together hard and
rolled over in a flurry of dry leaves. The cats were fight-
ing over the mouse; that was my signal to leave quietly.
I made one last grab for the gun, found it, got to my
feet, and staggered off up the grade that seemed as steep
now as penthouse rent. And from down slope I heard
an engine gunned, the clash of a heavy transmission that
needed adjustment. A spotlight flickered, made shadows
dance.
I recognized a fancy wrought-iron fence fronting a
vacant lot; that had been the Adams house. Only half a
block to go— but I was losing my grip fast. I went down
twice more, then gave up and started crawling. The
lights were all around now, brighter than ever. My head
split open, dropped off and rolled downhill.
A few more yards and I could let it all go. Ginny
would put me in a warm bed, patch up my scratches,
and feed me soup. Ginny would . .. Ginny....
I was lying with my mouth full of dead leaves. I heard
running feet, yells. An engine idled noisily down the
block.
I got my head up and found myself looking at
chipped brickwork and the heavy brass hinges from
which my front gate had hung. The gate was gone and
there was a large chunk of brick missing. Some delivery
truck had missed his approach.
I got to my feet, took a couple of steps into deep
shadow with feet that felt as though they'd been ampu-
tated and welded back on at the ankle. I stumbled,
fetched up against something scaled over with rust. I
held on, blinked, and made out the sweeping flank of my
brand-new '79 Pontiac. There was a crumbled crust of

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
whitish glass lining the brightwork strip that had framed
the rear window.
A fire ... ?
A footstep sounded behind me, and I suddenly re-
membered several things, none of them pleasant. I felt
for my gun; it was gone. I moved back along the side of
the car, tried to hold on.
No use. My arms were like unsuccessful pie crust. I
slid down among dead leaves, sat listening to the steps
coming closer. They stopped, and through a dense fog
that had sprung up suddenly I caught a glimpse of a tall
white-haired figure standing over me.
Then the fog closed in and swept everything away.
I lay on my back this time, looking across at the
smoky yellow light of a thick brown candle guttering in
the draft from a glassless window. In the center of the
room a few sticks of damp-looking wood heaped on the
cracked asphalt tiles burned with a grayish flame. A
thin curl of acrid smoke rose up to stir cobwebs fes-
tooned under ceiling beams from which wood veneer
had peeled away. Light-alloy trusswork showed be-
neath.
It was a strange scene, but not so strange that I didn't
recognize it: it was my own living room—looking a lit-
tle different than when I had seen it last. The odors
were different too: I picked out mildew, badly cured
leather, damp wool, tobacco. . . .
I turned my head. A yard from the rags I lay on, the
white-haired man, looking older than pharaoh, sat
sleeping with his back against the wall.
The shotgun was gripped in one big gnarled hand.
His head was tilted back, blue-veined eyelids shut. I sat
up, and at my movement his eyes opened.
He lay relaxed for a moment, as though life had to
return from some place far away. Then he raised his
head. His face was hollow and lined. His white hair
was thin. A coarse-woven shirt hung loose across wide

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
67
shoulders that once had been Herculean. But now
Hercules was old, old. He looked at me expectantly.
"Who are you?" I said. "Why did you follow me?
What happened to the house? Where's my family? Who
owns the bully-boys in green?" My jaw hurt when I
spoke. I put my hand up and felt it gingerly.
"You fell," the old man said in a voice that rumbled
like a subterranean volcano.
"The understatement of the year, Pop." I tried to
get up. Nausea knotted my stomach.
"You have to rest," the old man said, looking con-
cerned. "Before the Baron's men come.. . ." He paused,
looking at me as though he expected me to say some-
thing profound.
"I want to know where the people are that live here!"
My yell came out as weak as church-social punch. "A
woman and a boy. . . ."
He was shaking his head. "You have to do something
quick. The soldiers will come back, search every
house—"
I sat up, ignoring the little men driving spikes into
my skull. "I don't give a damn about soldiers! Where's
my family? What's happened?" I reached out and
gripped his arm. "How long was I down there? What
year is this?"
He only shook his head. "Come, eat some food. Then
I can help you with your plan."
It was no use talking to the old man: he was senile.
I got off the cot. Except for the dizziness and a feel-
ing that my knees were made of papier-mache, I was all
right. I picked up the hand-formed candle, stumbled
into the hall.
It was a jumble of rubbish. I climbed through,
pushed open the door to my study. There was my desk,
the tall bookcase with the glass doors, the gray rug, the
easy chair. Aside from a layer of dust and some peeling
wallpaper, it looked normal. I flipped the switch. Noth-
ing happened.

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
"What is that charm?" the old man said behind me.
He pointed to the light switch.
"The power's off," I said. "Just habit."
He reached out and flipped the switch up, then down
again. "It makes a pleasing sound."
"Yeah." I picked up a book from the desk; it fell
apart in my hands.
I went back into the hall, tried the bedroom door,
looked in at heaped leaves, the remains of broken furni-
ture, an empty window frame. I went on to the end of
the hall and opened the door to the bedroom.
Cold night wind blew through a barricade of broken
timbers. The roof had fallen in, and a sixteen-inch tree
trunk slanted through the wreckage. The old man stood
behind me, watching.
"Where is she, damn you?" I leaned against the door
frame to swear and fight off the faintness. "Where's my
wife?"
The old man looked troubled. "Come, eat now. . . ."
"Where is she? Where's the woman who lived here?"
He frowned, shook his head dumbly. I picked my
way through the wreckage, stepped out into knee-high
brush. A gust blew my candle out. In the dark I stared
at my back yard, the crumbled pit that had been the
barbecue grill, the tangled thickets that had been rose
beds—and a weathered length of boards upended in the
earth.
"What the hell's this. .. ?" I fumbled out a permatch,
lit my candle, leaned close, and read the crude letters
cut into the crumbling wood: Virginia anne jackson.
born jan. 8, 1957. kill by the dogs winter 1992.
Ill
The Baron's men came twice in the next three days.
Each time the old man carried me, swearing but too
weak to argue, out to a lean-to of branches and canvas
in the woods behind the house. Then he disappeared, to

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
69
come back an hour or two later and haul me back to my
rag bed by the fire.
Three times a day he gave me a tin pan of stew, and I
ate it mechanically. My mind went over and over the
picture of Ginny, living on for twelve years in the slowly
decaying house, and then—
It was too much. There are some shocks the mind re-
fuses.
I thought of the tree that had fallen and crushed the
east wing. An elm that size was at least fifty to sixty
years old—maybe older. And the only elm on the place
had been a two-year sapling. I knew it well: I had
planted it.
The date carved on the headboard was 1992. As
nearly as I could judge another thirty-five years had
passed since then, at least. My shipmates—Banner, Day,
Mallon—they were all dead, long ago. How had they
died? The old man was too far gone to tell me anything
useful. Most of my questions produced a shake of the
head and a few rumbled words about charms, demons,
spells, and the Baron.
"I don't believe in spells," I said. "And I'm not too
sure I believe in this Baron. Who is he?"
"The Baron Trollmaster of Filly. He holds all this
country"—the old man made a sweeping gesture with
his arm—"all the way to Jersey." -
"Why was he looking for me? What makes me im-
portant?"
"You came from the Forbidden Place. Everyone
heard the cries of the Lesser Troll that stands guard
over the treasure there. If the Baron can learn your se-
crets of power—"
"Troll, hell! That's nothing but a Bolo on auto-
matic!"
"By any name every man dreads the monster. A man
who walks in its shadow has much mana. But the others
—the ones that run in a pack like dogs—would tear you
to pieces for a demon if they could lay hands on you."

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
"You saw me back there. Why didn't you give me
away? And why are you taking care of me now?"
He shook his head—the all-purpose answer to any
question.
I tried another tack: "Who was the rag man you
tackled just outside? Why was he laying for me?"
The old man snorted. "The dogs will eat him. But for-
get that. Now we have to talk about your plan—"
"I've got about as many plans as the senior boarder
in Death Row. I don't know if you know it, Old Timer,
but somebody slid the world out from under me while I
wasn't looking."
The old man frowned. I had the thought that I
wouldn't like to have him mad at me, for all his white
hair. . . .
He shook his head. "You must understand what I tell
you. The soldiers of the Baron will find you some day.
If you are to break the spell—"
"Break the spell, eh?" I snorted. "I think I get the
idea, Pop. You've got it in your head that I'm a valu-
able property of some kind. You figure I can use my su-
pernatural powers to take over this menagerie—and
you'll be in on the ground floor. Well, listen, you old
idiot! I spent sixty years—maybe more—in a stasis
tank two hundred feet underground. My world died
while I was down there. This Baron of yours seems to
own everything now. If you think I'm going to get my-
self shot bucking him, forget it!"
The old man didn't say anything.
"Things don't seem to be broken up much," I went
on. "It must have been gas, or germ warfare—or fallout.
Damn few people around. You're still able to live on
what you can loot from stores; automobiles are still sit-
ting where they were the day the world ended. How old
were you when it happened, Pop? The war, I mean. Do
you remember it?"

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS	72
He shook his head. "The world has always been as it
is now."
"What year were you born?"
He scratched at his white hair. "I knew the number
once. But I've forgotten."
"I guess the only way I'll find out how long I was
gone is to saw that damned elm in two and count the
rings—but even that wouldn't help much; I don't know
when it blew over. Never mind. The important thing
now is to talk to this Baron of yours. Where does he
stay?"
The old man shook his head violently. "If the Baron
lays his hands on you, he'll wring the secrets from you
on the rack! I know his ways. For five years I was a
slave in the Palace Stables."
"If you think. I'm going to spend the rest of my days
in this rat nest, you got another guess on the house!
This Baron has tanks, an army. He's kept a little tech-
nology alive. That's the outfit for me—not this garbage
detail! Now, where's this place of his located?"
"The guards will shoot you on sight like a pack-dog!"
"There has to be a way to get to him, old man!
Think!"
The old head was shaking again. "He fears assassi-
nation. You can never approach him. . . ." He bright-
ened. "Unless you know a spell of power?"
I chewed my lip. "Maybe I do at that. You wanted
me to have a plan. I think I feel one coming on. Have
you got a map?"
He pointed to the desk beside me. I tried the draw-
ers, found mice, roaches, moldy money—and a stack of
folded maps. I opened one carfully; faded ink on yel-
lowed paper, falling apart at the creases. The legend in
the corner read: "PENNSYLVANIA 40M:1. Copy-
right 1970 by ESSO Corporation."
"This will do, Pop," I said. "Now, tell me all you can
about this Baron of yours."
"You'll destroy him?"

*<S6	KEITH LAUMER
"I haven't even met the man."
"He is evil."
"I don't know; he owns an army. That makes up for
a lot	"
After three more days of rest and the old man's stew,
I was back to normal—or near enough. I had the old
man boil me a tub of water for a bath and a shave. I
found a serviceable pair of synthetic fiber longjohns in a
chest of drawers, pulled them on and zipped the weath-
er suit over them, then buckled on the holster I had
made from a tough plastic.
"That completes my preparations, Pop," I said. "It'll
be dark in another half hour. Thanks for everything."
He got to his feet, a worried look on his lined face,
like a father the first time Junior asks for the car.
"The Baron's men are everywhere."
"If you want to help, come along and back me up
with that shotgun of yours." I picked it up. "Have you
got any shells for this thing?"
He smiled, pleased now. "There are shells—but the
magic is gone from many."
"That's the way magic is, Pop. It goes out of things
before you notice."
"Will you destroy the Great Troll now?"
"My motto is let sleeping trolls lie. I'm just paying a
social call on the Baron."
The joy ran out of his face like booze from a dropped
jug-
"Don't take it so hard, Old Timer. I'm not the fairy
prince you were expecting. But I'll take care of you—if
I make it."
I waited while he pulled on a moth-eaten mackinaw.
He took the shotgun and checked the breech, then
looked at me.
"I'm ready," he said.
"Yeah," I said. "Let's go	"
The Baronial palace was a forty-story slab of con-

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS	74
crete and glass that had been known in my day as the
Hilton Garden East. We made it in three hours of grop-
ing across country in the dark, at the end of which I was
puffing but still on my feet. We moved out from the
cover of the trees and looked across a dip in the ground
at the lights, incongruously cheerful in the ravaged
valley.
"The gates are there"—the old man pointed—
"guarded by the Great Troll."
"Wait a minute. I thought the Troll was the Bolo
back at the Site."
"That's the Lesser Troll. This is the Great One."
I selected a few choice words and muttered them to
myself. "It would have saved us some effort if you'd
mentioned this Troll a little sooner, Old Timer. I'm
afraid I don't have any spells that will knock out a
Mark II, once it's got its dander up."
He shook his head. "It lies under enchantment. I re-
member the day when it came, throwing thunderbolts.
Many men were killed. Then the Baron commanded it
to stand at his gates to guard him."
"How long ago was this, Old Timer?"
He worked his lips over the question. "Long ago," he
said finally. "Many winters."
"Let's go take a look."
We picked our way down the slope, came up along a
rutted dirt road to the dark line of trees tnat rimmed the
palace grounds. The old man touched my arm.
"Softly here. Maybe the Troll sleeps lightly. . . ."
I went the last few yards, eased around a brick col-
umn with a dead lantern on top, stared across fifty yards
of waist-high brush at a dark silhouette outlined against
the palace lights.
Cables, stretched from trees outside the circle of
weeds, supported a weathered tarp which drooped over
the Bolo. The wreckage of a helicopter lay like a crum-
pled dragonfly at the far side of the ring. Nearer, frag-
ments of a heavy car chassis lay scattered. The old man
hovered at my shoulder.

*<S6	KEITH LAUMER
"It looks as though the gate is off limits," I hissed.
"Let's try farther along."
He nodded. "No one passes here. There is a second
gate, there." He pointed. "But there are guards."
"Let's climb the wall between gates."
"There are sharp spikes on top the wall. But I know
a place, farther on, where the spikes have been blunt-
ed."
"Lead on, Pop."
Half an hour of creeping through wet brush brought
us to the spot we were looking for. It looked to me like
any other stretch of eight-foot masonry wall overhung
with wet poplar trees.
"I'll go first," the old man said, "to draw the atten-
tion of the guard."
"Then who's going to boost me up? I'll go first."
He nodded, cupped his hands and lifted me as easily
as a sailor lifting a beer glass. Pop was old—but he was
nobody's softie.
I looked around, then crawled up, worked my way
over the corroded spikes, dropped down on the lawn.
Immediately I heard a crackle of brush. A man stood
up not ten feet away. I lay flat in the dark trying to look
like something that had been there a long time. . . .
I heard another sound, a thump, and a crashing of
brush. The man before me turned, disappeared in the
darkness. I heard him beating his way through shrub-
bery; then he called out, got an answering shout from
the distance.
I didn't loiter. I got to my feet and made a sprint for
the cover of the trees along the drive.
IV
Flat on the wet ground, under the wind-whipped
branches of an ornamental cedar, I blinked the fine
misty rain from my eyes, waiting for the halfhearted
alarm behind me to die down.

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS	76
There were a few shouts, some sounds of searching
among the shrubbery. It was a bad night to be chasing
imaginary intruders in the Baronial grounds. In five
minutes all was quiet again.
I studied the view before me. The tree under which I
lay was one of a row lining a drive. It swung in a grace-
ful curve, across a smooth half-mile of dark lawn, to the
tower of light that was the Palace of the Baron of Filly.
The silhouetted figures of guards and late-arriving
guests moved against the gleam from the colonnaded
entrance. On a terrace high above, dancers twirled
under colored lights. The faint glow of the repellor field
kept the cold rain at a distance. In a lull in the wind I
heard music, faintly. The Baron's weekly Grand Ball
was in full swing.
I saw shadows move across the wet gravel before me,
then heard the purr of an engine. I hugged the ground
and watched a long svelte Mercedes—about a '68
model, I estimated—barrel past.
The mob in the city ran in packs like dogs, but the
Baron's friends did a little better for themselves.
I got to my feet and moved off toward the palace,
keeping well in the shadows. When the drive swung to
the right to curve across in front of the building, I left it,
went to hands and knees, and followed a trimmed privet
hedge, past dark rectangles of formal garden to the edge
of a secondary pond of light from the garages. I let my-
self down on my belly and watched the shadows that
moved on the graveled drive.
There seemed to be two men on jkity—no more.
Waiting around wouldn't improve my chances. I got to
my feet, stepped out into the drive and walked openly
around the corner of the gray fieldstone building into
the light.
A short thickset man in greasy Baronial green looked
at me incuriously. My weather suit looked enough like
ordinary coveralls to get me by—at least for a few min-
utes. A second man, tilted back against the wall in a
wooden chair, didn't even turn his head.

*<S6	KEITH LAUMER
"Hey!" I called. "You birds got a three-ton jack I
can borrow?"
Shorty looked me over sourly. "Who you drive for,
Mac?"
"The High Duke of Jersey. Flat. Left rear. On a
night like this. Some luck."
"The Jersey can't afford a jack?"
I stepped over the short man, prodded him with a
forefinger. "He could buy you and gut you on the altar
any Saturday night of the week, Low-pockets. And he'd
get a kick out of doing it. He's like that."
"Can't a guy crack a harmless joke without some-
body talks about altar-bait? You wanna jack, take a
jack."
The man in the chair opened one eye and looked
me over. "How long you on the Jersey payroll?" he
growled. -
"Long enough to know who handles the rank be-
tween Jersey and Filly." I yawned, looked around the
wide cement-floored garage, glanced over the four
heavy cars with the Filly crest on their sides.
"Where's the kitchen? I'm putting a couple of hot
coffees under my belt before I go back out into that."
"Over there. A flight up and to your left. Tell the
cook Pintsy invited you."
"I tell him Jersey sent me, Low-pockets." I moved
off in a dead silence, opened the door, and stepped up
into spicy-scented warmth.
A deep carpet—even here—muffled my footsteps. I
could hear the clash of pots and crockery from the
kitchen a hundred feet distant along the hallway. I went
along to a deep-set doorway ten feet from the kitchen,
tried the knob and looked into a dark room. I pushed
the door shut and leaned against it, watching the kitch-
en. Through the woodwork I could feel the thump of
the bass notes from the orchestra blasting away three
flights up. The odors of food—roast fowl, baked ham,
grilled horsemeat—curled under the kitchen door and

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS	78
wafted under my nose. I pulled my belt up a notch and
tried to swallow the dryness in my throat. The old man
had fed me a half a gallon of stew before we left home,
but I was already working up a fresh appetite.
Five slow minutes passed. Then the kitchen door
swung open and a tall round-shouldered fellow with a
shiny bald scalp stepped into view, a tray balanced on
the spread fingers of one hand. He turned, the black
tails of his cutaway swirling, called something behind
him, and started past me. I stepped out, clearing my
throat. He shied, whirled to face me. He was good at his
job: The two dozen tiny glasses on the tray stood fast.
He blinked, got an indignant remark ready—
I showed him the knife the old man had lent me—a
bone-handled job with a six-inch switchblade. "Make a
sound and I'll cut your throat," I said softly. "Put the
tray on the floor."
He started to back. I brought the knife up. He took a
good look, licked his lips, crouched quickly, and put the
tray down.
"Turn around."
I stepped in and chopped him at the base of the neck
with the edge of my hand. He folded like a two-dollar
umbrella.
I wrestled the door open and dumped him inside,
paused a moment to listen. All quiet. I worked his black
coat and trousers off, unhooked the stiff white dickey
and tie. He snored softly. I pulled the clothes on over
the weather suit. They were a fair fit. By the light of my
pencil flash, I cut down a heavy braided cord hanging
by a high window, used it to truss the waiter's hands
and feet together behind him. There was a small closet
opening off the room. I put him in it, closed the door,
and stepped back into the hall. Still quiet. I tried one of
the drinks. It wasn't bad.
I took another, then picked up the tray and followed
the sounds of music.
The grand ballroom was a hundred yards long, fifty

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
wide, with walls of rose, gold, and white, banks of. high
windows hung with crimson velvet, a vaulted ceiling
decorated with cherubs and a polished acre of floor on
which gaudily gowned and uniformed couples moved in
time to the heavy beat of the traditional foxtrot. I
moved slowly along the edge of the crowd, looking for
the Baron.
A hand caught my arm and hauled me around. A
glass fell off my tray, smashed on the floor.
A dapper little man in black and white headwaiter's
uniform glared up at me.
"What do you think you're doing, cretin?" he hissed.
"That's the genuine ancient stock you're slopping on the
floor." I looked around quickly; no one else seemed to
be paying any attention.
"Where are you from?" he snapped. I opened my
mouth—
"Never mind, you're all the same." He waggled his
hands disgustedly. "The field-hands they send me—a
disgrace to the Black. Now, you! Stand up! Hold your
tray proudly, gracefully! Step along daintily, not like a
knight taking the field! And pause occasionally—just on
the chance that some noble guest might wish to drink."
"You bet, pal," I said. I moved on, paying a little
more attention to my waiting. I saw plenty of green uni-
forms: pea green, forest green, emerald green—but
they were all hung with braid and medals. According to
Pop, the Baron affected a spartan simplicity. The diffi-
dence of absolute power.
There were high white and gold doors every few
yards along- the side of the ballroom. I spotted one
standing open and sidled toward it. It wouldn't hurt to
reconnoiter the area.
Just beyond the door a very large sentry in a bottle-
green uniform almost buried under gold braid moved in
front of me. He was dressed like a toy soldier, but there
was nothing playful about the way he snapped his
power gun to the ready. I winked at him.

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS	80
"Thought you boys might want a drink," I hissed.
"Good stuff,"
He looked at the tray, licked his lips. "Get back in
there, you fool," he growled. "You'll get us both hung."
"Suit yourself, pal." I backed out. Just before the
door closed between us, he lifted a glass off the tray.
I turned, almost collided with a long lean cookie in a
powder-blue outfit complete with dress saber, gold
frogs, leopard-skin facings, a pair of knee-length white
gloves looped under an epaulette, a pistol in a fancy
holster and an eighteen-inch swagger stick. He gave me
the kind of look old maids give sin.
"Look where you're going, swine," he said in a voice
like a pine board splitting.
"Have a drink, Admiral," I suggested.
He lifted his upper lip to show me a row of teeth that
hadn't had their annual trip to the dentist lately. The
ridges along each side of his mouth turned greenish
white. He snatched for the gloves on his shoulder, fum-
bled them; they slapped the floor beside me.
"I'd pick those up for you, Boss," I said, "But I've
got my tray. . . ."
He drew a breath between his teeth, chewed it into
strips and snorted it back at me, then snapped his
fingers and pointed with his stick toward the door be-
hind me.	„
"Through there, instantly!" It didn't seem like the
time to argue; I pulled it open and stepped through.
The guard in green ducked his glass and snapped to
attention when he saw the baby-blue outfit. My new
friend ignored him, made a curt gesture to me. I got the
idea, trailed along the wide, high, gloomy corridor to a
small door, pushed through it into a well-lit tile-walled
latrine. A big-eyed slave in white ducks stared.
Blue-boy jerked his head. "Get out!" The slave scut-
tled away. Blue-boy turned to me.
"Strip off your jacket, slave! Your owner has neglect-
ed to teach you discipline."

*<S6	KEITH LAUMER
I looked around quickly, saw that we were alone.
"Wait a minute while I put the tray down, Corporal,"
I said. "We don't want to waste any of the good stuff." I
turned to put the tray on a soiled linen bin, caught a
glimpse of motion in the mirror.
I ducked, and the nasty-looking little leather quirt
whistled past my ear, slammed against the edge of a
marble-topped lavatory with a crack like a pistol shot. I
dropped the tray, stepped in fast and threw a left to
Blue-boy's jaw that bounced his head against the tiled
wall. I followed up with a right to the belt buckle, then
held him up as he bent over, gagging, and hit him hard
under the ear.
I hauled him into a booth, propped him up and start-
ed shedding the waiter's blacks.
V
I left him on the floor wearing my old suit, and stepped
out into the hall.
I liked the feel of his pistol at my hip. It was an old
fashioned .38, the same model I favored. The blue uni-
form was a good fit, what with the weight I'd lost. Blue-
boy and I had something in common after all.
The latrine attendant goggled at me. I grimaced like a
quadruple amputee trying to scratch his nose and jerked
my head toward the door I had come out of. I hoped
the gesture would look familiar.
"Truss that mad dog and throw him outside the
gates," I snarled. I stamped off down the corridor, try-
ing to look mad enough to discourage curiosity.
Apparently it worked. Nobody yelled for the cops.
I reentered the ballroom by another door, snagged a
drink off a passing tray, checked over the crowd. I saw
two more powder-blue getups, so I wasn't unique
enough to draw special attention. I made a mental note
to stay well away from my comrades in blue. I blended
with the landscape, chatting and nodding and not ne-
glecting my drinking, working my way toward a big

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
82
arched doorway on the other side of the room that
looked like the kind of entrance the head man might
use. I didn't want to meet him. Not yet. I just wanted to
get him located before I went any further.
A passing wine slave poured a full inch of the genu-
ine ancient stock into my glass, ducked his head and
moved on. I gulped it like sour bar whiskey. My atten-
tion was elsewhere.
A flurry of activity near the big door indicated that
maybe my guess had been accurate. Potbellied officials
were forming up in a sort of reception line near the big
double door. I started to drift back into the rear rank,
bumped against a fat man in medals and a sash who
glared, fingered a monocle with a plump ring-studded
hand, and said, "Suggest you take your place, Colonel,"
in a suety voice.
I must have looked doubtful, because he bumped
me with his paunch, and growled, "Foot of the line!
Next to the Equerry, you idiot." He elbowed me aside
and waddled past.
I took a step after him, reached out with my left foot
and hooked his shiny black boot. He leaped forward,
off balance, medals jangling. I did a fast fade while he
was still groping for his monocle, eased into a spot at
the end of the line.
The conversation died away to a nervous murmur.
The doors swung back and a pair of guards with more
trimmings than a phony stock certificate stamped into
view, wheeled to face each other and presented arms—
chrome-plated automatic rifles, in this case. A dark-
faced man with thinning gray hair, a pug nose, and a
trimmed gray Vandyke came into view, limping slight-
ly from a stiffish knee.
His unornamented gray outfit made him as conspicu-
ous in this gathering as a crane among peacocks. He
nodded perfunctorily to left and right, coming along be-
tween the waiting rows of flunkys, who snapped-to as
he came abreast, wilted and let out sighs behind him. I
studied him closely. He was fifty, give or take the age of

*<S6	KEITH LAUMER
a bottle of second-rate bourbon, with the weather-
beaten complexion of a former outdoor man, and the
same look of alertness grown bored that a rattlesnake
farmer develops—just before the fatal bite.
He looked up and caught my eye on him, and for a
moment I thought he was about to speak. Then he went
on past.
At the end of the line he turned abruptly and spoke
to a man who hurried away. Then he engaged in con-
versation with a cluster of head-bobbing guests.
I spent the next fifteen minutes casually getting closer
to the door nearest the one the Baron had entered. I
looked around; nobody was paying any attention to me.
I stepped past a guard who presented arms. The door
closed softly, cutting off the buzz of talk and the worst
of the music.
I went along to the end of the corridor. From the
transverse hall, a grand staircase rose in a sweep of
bright chrome and pale wood. I didn't know where it
led, but it looked right. I headed for it, moving along
briskly like a man with important business in mind and
no time for light chitchat.
Two flights up, in a wide corridor of muted lights,
deep carpets, brocaded wall hangings, mirrors, urns,
and an odor of expensive tobacco and coeur de Russe, a
small man in black bustled from a side corridor. He saw
me. He opened his mouth, closed it, half turned away,
then swung back to face me. I recognized him; he was
the headwaiter who had pointed out the flaws in my
waiting style half an hour earlier.
"Here," he started—
I chopped him short with a roar of what I hoped was
authentic upper-crust rage.
"Direct me to His Excellency's apartments, scum!
And thank your guardian imp I'm in too great haste to
cane you for the insolent look about you!"
He went pale, gulped hard, and pointed. I snorted

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS	84

and stamped past him down the turning he had in-
dicated.
This was Baronial country, all right. A pair of guards
stood at the far end of the corridor.
I'd passed half a dozen with no more than a click of
heels to indicate they saw me. These two shouldn't be
any different—and it wouldn't look good if I turned and
started back at sight of them. The first rule of the gate-
crasher is to look as if you belong where you are.
I headed in their direction.
When I was fifty feet from them, they both shifted ri-
fles—not to present-arms position, but at the ready.
The nickel-plated bayonets were aimed right at me. It
was no time for me to look doubtful; I kept on coming.
At twenty feet, I heard their rifle bolts snick home. I
could see the expressions on their faces now: they
looked as nervous as a couple of teen-age sailors on
their first visit to a joy-house.
"Point those butter knives into the corner, you ba-
nan-fingered cotton choppers!" I said, looking bored
and not wavering. I unlimbered my swagger stick and
slapped my gloved hand with it, letting them think it
over. The gun muzzles dropped—just slightly. I fol-
lowed up fast.
"Which is the anteroom to the Baron's apartments?"
I demanded.
"Uh . . . this here is His Excellency's apartments, sir,
but—"
"Never mind the lecture, you milk-faced fool," I cut
in. "Do you think I'd be here if it weren't? Which is the
anteroom, damn you!"
"We got orders, sir. Nobody's to come closer than
that last door back there."
"We got orders to shoot," the other interrupted. He
was a little older—maybe twenty-two. I turned on him.
"I'm waiting for an answer to a question!"
"Sir, the Articles—"
I narrowed my eyes. "I think you'll find Paragraph

*<S6	KEITH LAUMER
Two B covers Special Cosmic Top-Secret Couriers.
When you go off duty, report yourselves on punishment.
Now, the anteroom! And be quick about it!"
The bayonets were sagging now. The younger of the
two licked his lips. "Sir, we never been inside. We don't
know how it's laid out in there. If the colonel wants to
just take a look. . . ."
The other guard opened his mouth to say something.
I didn't wait to find out what it was. I stepped between
them, muttering something about bloody recruits and
important messages, and worked the fancy handle on
the big gold and white door. I paused to give the two
sentries a hard look.
"I hope I don't have to remind you that any mention
of the movements of a Cosmic Courier is punishable by
slow death. Just forget you ever saw me." I went on in
and closed the door without waiting to catch the reac-
tion to that one.
The Baron had done well by himself in the matter of
decor. The room I was in—a sort of lounge-cum-bar—
was paved in two-inch deep nylon fuzz the color of a
fog at sea, that foamed up at the edges against walls of
pale-blue brocade with tiny yellow flowers. The bar was
a teak look split down the middle and polished. The
glasses sitting on it were like tissue paper engraved with
patterns of nymphs and satyrs. Subdued light came
from somewhere, along with a faint melody that seemed
to speak of youth, long ago.
I went on into the next room, found more soft light,
the glow of hand-rubbed rare woods, rich fabrics, and
wide windows with a view of dark night sky. The music
was coming from a long low built-in speaker with a
lamp, a heavy crystal ashtray and a display of hothouse
roses. There was a scent in the air. Not the couer de
Russe and Havana leaf I'd smelled in the hall, but a
subtler perfume.
I turned and looked into the eyes of a girl with long
black lashes. Smooth black hair came down to bare
shoulders. An arm as smooth and white as whipped

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS	85
cream was draped over a chair back, the hand holding
an eight-inch cigarette holder and sporting a diamond
as inconspicuous as a chrome-plated hubcap.
"You must want something pretty badly," she mur-
mured, batting her eyelashes at me. I could feel the
breeze at ten feet. I nodded. Under the circumstances
that was about the best I could do.
"What could it be," she mused, "that's worth being
shot for?" Her voice was like the rest of her: smooth,
polished, and relaxed—and with plenty of moxie held
in reserve. She smiled casually, drew on her cigarette,
tapped ashes onto the rug.
"Something bothering you, Colonel?" she inquired.
"You don't seem talkative."
"I'll do my talking when the Baron arrives," I said.
"In that case, Jackson," said a husky voice behind
me, "you can start any time you like."
I held my hands clear of my body and turned around
slowly—just in case there was a nervous gun aimed at
my spine. The Baron was standing near the door, un-
armed, relaxed. There were no guards in sight. The girl
looked mildly amused. I put my hand on the pistol butt.
"How do you know my name?" I asked.
The Baron waved toward a chair. "Sit down, Jack-
son," he said almost gently. "You've had a tough time
of it—but you're all right now." He walked past me to
the bar, poured out two glasses, turned, and offered me
one. I felt a little silly standing there fingering the gun; I
went over and took the drink.
"To the old days." The Baron raised his glass.
I drank. It was the genuine ancient stock, all right. "I
asked you how you knew my name," I said.
"That's easy. I used to know you."
He smiled faintly. There was something about his
face. . . .
"You look well in the uniform of the Penn-
dragoons," he said. "Better than you ever did in Aero-
space blue."

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
"Good God!" I said. "Toby Mallon!"
He ran a hand over hi.s bald head. "A little less hair
on top, plus a beard as compensation, a few wrinkles, a
slight pot. Oh, I've changed, Jackson."
"I had it figured as close to eighty years," I said.
"The trees, the condition of the buildings—"
"Not far off the mark. Seventy-eight years this
spring."
"You're a well-preserved hundred and ten, Toby."
He shook his head. "You weren't the only one in the
tanks. But you had a better unit than I did. Mine gave
out twenty years ago."
"You mean—you walked into this cold—just like I
did?"
He nodded. "I know how you feel. Rip Van Winkle
had nothing on us."
"Just one question, Toby. The men you sent out to
pick me up seemed more interested in shooting than
talking. I'm wondering why."
Mallon threw out his hands, "A little misunder-
standing, Jackson. You made it; that's all that counts.
Now that you're here, we've got some planning to do to-
gether. I've had it tough these last twenty years. I start-
ed off with nothing: a few hundred scavengers living in
the ruins, hiding out every time Jersey or Dee-Cee raid-
ed for supplies. I built an organization, started a system-
atic salvage operation. I saved everything the rats and
the weather hadn't gotten to, spruced up my palace here
and stocked it. It's a rich province, Jackson—"
"And now you own it all. Not bad, Toby."
"They say knowledge is power. I had the knowl-
edge."
I finished my drink and put the glass on the bar.
"What's this planning you say we have to do?"
Mallon leaned back on one elbow.
"Jackson, it's been a long haul—alone. It's good to
see an old shipmate. But we'll dine first."
"I might manage to nibble a little something. Say a

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
88
horse, roasted whole. Don't bother to remove the sad-
dle."
He laughed. "First we eat," he said. "Then we con-
quer the world."
vi
I squeezed the last drop from the Beaujolais bottle and
watched the girl, whose name was Renada, hold a light
for the cigar Mallon had taken from a silver box. My
blue mess jacket and holster hung over the back of the
chair. Everything was cozy now.
"Time for business, Jackson," Mallon said. He blew
out smoke and looked at me through it. "How did
thinss look—inside?"
"Dusty. But intact, below ground level. Upstairs,
there's blast damage and weathering. I don't suppose
it's changed much since you came out twenty years ago.
As far as I could tell, the Primary Site is okay."
Mallon leaned forward. "Now, you made it out past
the Bolo. How did it handle itself? Still fully function-
al?"
I sipped my wine, thinking over my answer, remem-
bering the Bolo's empty guns. . . .
"It damn near gunned me down. It's getting a little
old and it can't see as well as it used to, but it's still a
tough baby."
Mallon swore suddenly. "It was Mackenzie's idea. A
last-minute move when the tech crews had to evacuate.
It was a dusting job, you know."
"I hadn't heard. How did you find out all this?"
Mallon shot me a sharp look. "There were still a few
people around who'd been in it. But never mind that.
What about the Supply Site? That's what we're interest-
ed in. Fuel, guns, even some nuclear stuff. Heavy equip-
ment; there's a couple more Bolos, mothballed, I under-
stand. Maybe we'll even find one or two of the Colossus
missiles still in their silos. I made an air recon a few
years back before my chopper broke down—"

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
"I think two silo doors are still in place. But why the
interest in armament?"
Mallon snorted. "You've got a few things to learn
about the setup, Jackson. I need that stuff. If I hadn't
lucked into a stock of weapons and ammo in the armory
cellar, Jersey would be wearing the spurs in <my palace
right now!"
I drew on my cigar and let the silence stretch out.
"You said something about conquering the world,
Toby. I don't suppose by any chance you meant that lit-
erally?"
Mallon stood up, his closed fists working like a man
crumpling unpaid bills. "They all want what I've got!
They're all waiting." He walked across the room, back.
"I'm ready to move against them now! I can put four
thousand trained men in the field—"
"Let's get a couple of things straight, Mallon," I cut
in. "You've got the natives fooled with this Baron rou-
tine. But don't try it on me. Maybe it was even neces-
sary once; maybe there's an excuse for some of the
stories I've heard. That's over now. I'm not interested in
tribal warfare or gang rumbles. I need—"
"Better remember who's running things here, Jack-
son!" Mallon snapped. "It's not what you need that
counts." He took another turn up and down the room,
then stopped, facing me.
"Look, Jackson. I know how to get around in this
jungle; you don't. If I hadn't spotted you and given
some orders, you'd have been gunned down before
you'd gone ten feet past the ballroom door."
"Why'd you let me in? I might've been gunning for
you."
"You wanted to see the Baron alone. That suited me
too. If word got out—" He broke off, cleared his throat.
"Let's stop wrangling, Jackson. We can't move until the
Bolo guarding the site has been neutralized. There's
only one way to do that: knock it out! And the only
thing that can knock out a Bolo is another Bolo."

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
89
"So?"
"I've got another Bolo, Jackson. It's been covered,
maintained. It can go up against the Troll—" He broke
off, laughed shortly."That's what the mob called it."
"You could have done that years ago. Where do I
come in?"
"You're checked out on a Bolo, Jackson. You know
something about this kind of equipment."
"Sure. So do you."
"I never learned," he said shortly.
"Who's kidding whom, Mallon? We all took the same
orientation course less than a month ago—"
"For me it's been a long month. Let's just say I've
forgotten."
"You parked that Bolo at your front gate and then
forgot how you did it, eh?"
"Nonsense. It's always been there."
I shook my head. "I know different."
Mallon looked wary. "Where'd you get that idea?"
"Somebody told me."
Mallon ground his cigar out savagely on the damask
cloth. "You'll point the scum out to me!"
"I don't give a damn whether you moved it or not.
Anybody with your training can figure out the controls
of a Bolo in half an hour—"
"Not well enough to take on the Tr—another Bolo."
I took a cigar from the silver box, picked up the
lighter from the table, turned the cigar in the flame.
Suddenly it was very quiet in the room.
I looked across at Mallon. He held out his hand.
"I'll take that," he said shortly.
I blew out smoke, squinted through it at Mallon. He
sat with his hand out, waiting. I looked down at the
lighter.
It was a heavy windproof model, with embossed
Aerospace wings. I turned it over. Engraved letters
read: Lt. Cmdr. Don G. Banner, USSF. I looked up.
Renada sat quietly, holding my pistol trained dead on
my belt buckle.

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
"I'm sorry you saw that," Mallon said. "It could
cause misunderstandings."
"Where's Banner?"
"He . . . died. I told you—"
"You told me a lot of things, Toby. Some of them
might even be true. Did you make him the same offer
you've made me?"
Mallon darted a look at Renada. She sat holding the
pistol, looking at me distantly, without expression.
"You've got the wrong idea, Jackson—" Mallon
started.
"You and he came out about the same time," I said.
"Or maybe you got the jump on him by a few days. It
must have been close; otherwise you'd never have taken
him. Don was a sharp boy."
"You're out of your mind!" Mallon snapped. "Why,
Banner was my friend!"
"Then why do you get nervous when I find his lighter
on your table? There could be ten perfectly harmless
explanations."
"I don't make explanations," Mallon said flatly.
"That attitude is hardly the basis for a lasting part-
nership, Toby. I have an unhappy feeling there's some-
thing you're not telling me."
Mallon pulled himself up in the chair. "Look here,
Jackson. We've no reason to fall out. There's plenty for
both of us—and one day I'll be needing a successor. It
was too bad about Banner, but that's ancient history
now. Forget it. I want you with me, Jackson! Together
we can rule the Atlantic Seaboard—or even more!"
I drew on my cigar, looking at the gun in Renada's
hand. "You hold the aces, Toby. Shooting me would be
no trick at all."
"There's no trick involved, Jackson!" Mallon
snapped. "After all," he went on, almost wheedling
now, "we're old friends. I want to give you a break,
share with you—"
"I don't think I'd trust him if I were you, Mr. Jack-
son," Renada's quiet voice cut in. I looked at her. She

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
91
looked back calmly. "You're more important to him
than you think."
"That's enough, Renada," Mallon barked. "Go to
your room at once."
"Not just yet, Toby," she said. "I'm also curious
about how Commander Banner died." I looked at the
gun in her hand.
It wasn't pointed at me now. It was aimed at Mal-
lon's chest.
Mallon sat sunk deep in his chair, looking at me with
eyes like a python with a bellyache. "You're fools, both
of you," he grated. "I gave you everything, Renada. I
raised you like my own daughter. And you, Jackson.
You could have shared with me-—all of it."
"I don't need a share of your delusions, Toby. I've
got a set of my own. But before we go any farther, let's
clear up a few points. Why haven't you been getting any
mileage out of your tame Bolo? And what makes me
important in the picture?"
"He's afraid of the Bolo machine," Renada said.
"There's a spell on it which prevents men from ap-
proaching—even the Baron."
"Shut your mouth, you fool!" Mallon choked on his
fury. I tossed the lighter in my hand and felt a smile
twitching at my mouth.
"So Don was too smart for you after all. He must
have been the one who had control of the Bolo. I sup-
pose you called for a truce, and then shot him out from
under the white flag. But he fooled you. He's plugged a
command into the Bolo's circuits to fire on anyone who
came close—unless he was Banner."
"It's close enough. You can't get near the Bolo.
Right? And after twenty years the bluff you've been
running on the other Barons with your private troll
must be getting a little thin. Any day now one of them
may decide to try you."
Mallon twisted his face in what may have been an at-
You're crazy!"

*<S6	KEITH LAUMER
tempt at a placating smile. "I won't argue with you,
Jackson. You're right about the command circuit. Ban-
ner set it up to fire an antipersonnel blast at anyone
coming within fifty yards. He did it to keep the mob
from tampering with the machine. But there's a loop-
hole. It wasn't only Banner who could get close. He set
it up to accept any of the Prometheus crew—except me.
He hated me. It was a trick to try to get me killed."
"So you're figuring I'll step in and defuse her for you,
eh, Toby? Well, I'm sorry as hell to disappoint you, but
somehow in the confusion I left my electropass behind."
Mallon leaned toward me. "I told you we need each
other, Jackson: I've got your pass. Yours and all the
others. Renada, hand me my black box." She rose and
moved across to the desk, holding the gun on Mallon—
and on me too, for that matter.
"Where'd you get my pass, Mallon?"
"Where do you think? They're the duplicates from
the vault in the old command block. I knew one day one
of you would come out. I'll tell you, Jackson, it's been
hell, waiting all these years—and hoping. I gave orders
that any time the Great Troll bellowed, the mob was to
form up and stop anybody who came out. I don't know
how you got through them. . . ."
"I was too slippery for them. Besides," I added, "I
met a friend."
"A friend? Who's that?"
"An old man who thought I was Prince Charming,
come to wake everybody up. He was nuts. But he got
me through."
Renada came back, handed me a square steel box.
"Let's have the key, Mallon," I said. He handed it over.
I opened the box, sorted through half a dozen silver-
dollar-sized ovals of clear plastic, lifted one out.
"Is it a magical charm?" Renada asked, sounding
awed. She didn't seem so sophisticated now—but I
liked her better human.
"Just a synthetic crystalline plastic, designed to res-
onate to a patter peculiar to my EGG," I said. "It am-

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
93
plifies the signal and gives off a characteristic emission
that the psychotronic circuit in the Bolo picks up."
"That's what I thought. Magic."
"Call it magic, then, kid." I dropped the electropass
in my pocket, stood and looked at Renada. "I don't
doubt that you know how to use that gun, honey, but
I'm leaving now. Try not to shoot me."
"You're a fool if you try it," Mallon barked. "If Re-
nada doesn't shoot you, my guards will. And even if you
made it, you'd still need me!"
"I'm touched by your concern, Toby. Just why do I
need you?"
"You wouldn't get past the first sentry post without
help, Jackson. These people know me as the Trollmas-
ter. They're in awe of me—of my mana. But together—
we can get to the controls of the Bolo, then use it to
knock out the sentry machine at the Site—"
"Then what? With an operating Bolo I don't need
anything else. Better improve the picture, Toby. I'm not
impressed."
He wet his lips.
"It's Prometheus, do you understand? She's stocked
with everything from Browning needlers to Norge stun-
ners. Tools, weapons, instruments. And the power
plants alone."
"I don't need needlers if I own a Bolo, Toby."
Mallon used some profanity. "You'll leave your liver
and lights on the palace altar, Jackson. I promise you
that!"
"Tell him what he wants to know. Toby," Renada
said. Mallon narrowed his eyes at h'.r. "You'll live to
regret this, Renada."
"Maybe I will, Toby. But you taught me how to han-
dle a gun—and to play cards for keeps."
The flush faded out of his face and left it pale. "All
right, Jackson," he said, almost in a whisper. "It's not
only the equipment. It's ... the men."
I heard a clock ticking somewhere.

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
"What men, Toby?" I said softly.
"The crew. Day, Macy, the others. They're still in
there, Jackson—aboard the ship, in stasis. We were try-
ing to get the ship off when the attack came. There was
forty minutes' warning. Everything was ready to go.
You were on a test run; there wasn't time to cycle you
out	"
"Keep talking," I rasped.
"You know how the system was set up; it was to be a
ten-year runout, with an automatic turnaround at the
end of that time if Alpha Centauri wasn't within a milli-
parsec." He snorted. "It wasn't. After twenty years the
instruments checked. They were satisfied. There was a
planetary mass within the acceptable range. So they
brought me out." He snorted again. "The longest dry
run in history. I unstrapped and came out to see what
was going on. It took me a little while to realize what
had happened. I went back in and cycled Banner and
Mackenzie out. We went into the town; you know what
we found. I saw what we had to do, but Banner and
Mac argued. The fools wanted to reseal Prometheus
and proceed with the launch. For what? So we could
spend the rest of our lives squatting in the ruins, when
by stripping the ship we could make ourselves kings?"
"So there was an argument?" I prompted.
"I had a gun. I hit Mackenzie in the leg, I think—but
they got clear, found a car and beat me to the Site.
There were two Bolos. What chance did I have against
them?" Mallon grinned craftily. "But Banner was a
fool. He died for it." The grin dropped like a stripper's
bra. "But when I went to claim my spoils, I discovered
how the jackals had set the trap for me."
"That was downright unfriendly of them, Mallon.
Oddly enough, it doesn't make me want to stay and
hold your hand."
"Don't you understand yet?" Mallon's voice was a
dry screech. "Even if you got clear of the Palace, used
the Bolo to set yourself up as Baron—you'd never be

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
95
safe! Not as long as one man was still alive aboard the
ship. You'd never have a night's rest, wondering when
one of them would walk out to challenge your rule. . .."
" 'Uneasy lies the head,' eh, Toby? You remind me
of a queen bee. The first one out of the chrysalis dis-
members all her rivals."
"I don't mean to kill them. That would be a waste. I
mean to give them useful work to do."
"I don't think they'd like being your slaves, Toby.
And neither would I." I looked at Renada. "I'll be leav-
ing you now," I said. "Whichever way you decide, good
luck."
"Wait." She stood. "I'm going with you."
I looked at her. "I'll be traveling fast, honey. And
that gun in my back may throw off my timing."
She stepped to me, reversed the pistol and laid it in
my hand.
"Don't kill him, Mr. Jackson. He was always kind to
me."
"Why change sides now? According to Toby, my
chances look not too good."
"I never knew before how Commander Banner
died," she said. "He was my great-grandfather."
VII
Renada came back bundled in a gray fur as I finished
buckling on my holster.
"So long, Toby," I said. "I ought to shoot you in the
belly just for Don—but—"
I saw Renada's eyes widen at the same instant that I
heard the click.
I dropped flat and rolled behind Mallon's chair—and
a gout of blue flame yammered into the spot where I'd
been standing. I whipped the gun up and fired a round
into the peach-colored upholstery an inch from Toby's
ear.
"The next one nails you to the chair," I yelled. "Call
'em off!" There was a moment of dead silence. Toby sat

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
frozen. I couldn't see who'd been doing the shooting.
Then I heard a moan. Renada.
"Let the girl alone or I'll kill him," I called.
Toby sat rigid, his eyes rolled toward me.
"You can't kill me, Jackson! I'm all that's keeping
you alive."
"You can't kill me either, Toby. You need my magic
touch, remember? Maybe you'd better give me a safe-
conduct out of here. I'll take the freeze off your Bolo—
after I've seen to my business."
Toby licked his lips. I heard Renada again. She was
trying not to moan—but moaning anyway.
"You tried, Jackson. It didn't work out," Toby said
through gritted teeth. "Throw out your gun and stand
up. I won't kill you—you know that. You do as you're
told and you may still live to a ripe old age—and the
girl, too."
She screamed then—a mindless ululation of pure
agony.
"Hurry up, you fool, before they tear her arm off,"
Mallon grated. "Or shoot. You'll get to watch her for
twenty-four hours under the knife. Then you'll have
your turn."
I fired again—closer this time. Mallon jerked his
head and cursed.
"If they touch her again, you get it, Toby," I said.
"Send her over here. Move!"
"Let her go!" Mallon snarled. Renada stumbled into
sight, moved around the chair, then crumpled suddenly
to the rug beside me.
"Stand up, Toby," I ordered. He rose slowly. Sweat
glistened on his face now. "Stand over here." He moved
like a sleepwalker. I got to my feet. There were two
men standing across the room beside a small open door.
A sliding panel. Both of them held power rifles leveled
—but aimed offside, away from the Baron.
"Drop 'em!" I said. They looked at me, then lowered
the guns, tossed them aside.
I opened my mouth to tell Mallon to move ahead,

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
97
but my tongue felt thick and heavy. The room was sud-
denly full of smoke. In front of me, Mallon was waver-
ing like a mirage. I started to tell him to stand still, but
with my thick tongue, it was too much trouble. I raised
the gun, but somehow it was falling to the floor,—slow-
ly, like a leaf—and then I was floating, too, on waves
that broke on a dark sea. . . .
"Do you think you're the first idiot who thought he
could kill me?" Mallon raised a contemptuous lip.
"This room's rigged ten different ways."
I shook my head, trying to ignore the film before my
eyes and the nausea in my body. "No, I imagine lots of
people would like a crack at you, Toby. One day one of
them's going to make it."
"Get him on his feet," Mallon snapped. Hard hands
clamped on my arms, hauled me off the cot. I worked
my legs, but they were like yesterday's celery; I sagged
against somebody who smelled like uncured hides.
"You seem drowsy," Mallon said. "We'll see if we
can't wake you up."
A thumb dug into my neck. I jerked away, and a jab
under the ribs doubled me over.
"I have to keep you alive—for the moment," Mallon
said. "But you won't get a lot of pleasure out of it."
I blinked hard. It was dark in the room. One of my
handlers had a ring of beard around his mouth—I could
see that much. Mallon was standing before me, hands
on hips. I aimed a kick at him, just for fun. It didn't
work out; my foot seemed to hp wearing a lead boat.
The unshaven man hit me in the mouth and Toby
chuckled.
"Have your fun, Dunger," he said, "but I'll want him
alive and on his feet for the night's work. Take him out
and walk him in the fresh air. Report to me at the Pavil-
lion of the Troll in an hour." He turned to something
and gave orders about lights and gun emplacement,
and I heard Renada's name mentioned.

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
Then he was gone and I was being dragged through
the door and along the corridor.
The exercise helped. By the time the hour had
passed, I was feeling weak but normal—except for an
aching head and a feeling that there was a strand of spi-
derweb interfering with my vision. Toby had given me a
good meal. Maybe before the night was over he'd regret
that mistake. . . .
Across the dark grounds, an engine started up, splut-
tered, then settled down to a steady hum.
"It's time," the one with the whiskers said. He had a
voice like soft cheese, to match his smell. He took an-
other half-twist in the arm he was holding.
"Don't break it," I grunted. "It belongs to the Baron,
remember?"
Whiskers stopped dead. "You talk too much—and
too smart." He let my arm go and stepped back. "Hold
him, Pig Eye." The other man whipped a forearm
across my throat and levered my head back; then
Whiskers unlimbered the two-foot club from his belt
and hit me hard in the side, just under the ribs. Pig Eye
let go and I folded over and waited while the pain
swelled up and burst inside me.
Then they hauled me back to my feet. I couldn't feel
any bone ends grating, so there probably weren't any
broken ribs—if that was any consolation.
a
There were lights glaring now across the lawn. Mov-
ing figures cast long shadows against the trees lining the
drive—and on the side of the Bolo Combat Unit parked
under its canopy by the sealed gate.
A crude breastwork had been thrown up just over
fifty yards from it. A wheel-mounted generator putted
noisily in the background, laying a layer of bluish ex-
haust in the air.
Mallon was waiting with a 9-mm. power rifle in his
hands as we came up, my two guards gripping me with
both hands to demonstrate their zeal, and me staggering
a little more than was necessary. I saw Renada standing

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
99
by, wrapped in a gray fur. Her face looked white in the
harsh light. She made a move toward me and a green-
back caught her arm.
"You know what to do, Jackson," Mallon said, speak-
ing loudly against the clatter of the generator. He made
a curt gesture and a man stepped up and buckled a
stout chain to my left ankle. Mallon held out my elec-
tropass. "I want you to walk straight to the Bolo. Go in
by the side port. You've got one minute to cancel the
instructions punched into the command circuit and
climb back outside. If you don't show, I close a switch
there"— he pointed to a wooden box mounting an open
circuit-breaker, with a tangle of heavy cable leading to-
ward the Bolo—"and you cook in your shoes. The same
thing happens if I see the guns start to traverse or the
antipersonnel ports open." I followed the coils of ar-
mored wire from the chain on my ankle back to the
wooden box—and on to the generator.
"Crude, maybe, but it will work. And if you get any
idea of letting fly a round or two at random—re-
member, the girl will be right beside me."
I looked across at the giant machine. "Suppose it
doesn't recognize me? It's been a while. Or what if Don
didn't plug my identity pattern into the recognition cir-
cuit?"
"In that case, you're no good to me anyway," Mallon
said flatly.
I caught Renada's eye, gave her a wink and a smile I
didn't feel, and climbed up on top of the revetment.
I looked back at Mallon. He was old and shrunken in
the garish light, his smooth gray suit rumpled, his thin
hair mussed, the gun held in a white-knuckled grip. He
looked more like a harassed shopkeeper than a would-
be world-beater.
"You must want that Bolo pretty bad to take the
chance, Toby," I said. "I'll thirst about taking that wild
shot. You sweat me out."
I flipped slack into the wire trailing my ankle, jumped
down and started across the smooth-trimmed grass, a

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
long black shadow stalking before me. The Bolo sat si-
lent, as big as a bank in the circle of the spotlight. I
could see the flecks of rust now around the port covers,
the small vines that twined up her sides from the ragged
stands of weeds that marked no-man's land.
There was something white in the brush ahead. Bro-
ken human bones.
I felt my stomach go rigid again. The last man had
gotten this far; I wasn't in the clear yet. ...
I passed two more scattered skeletons in the next
twenty feet. They must have come in on the run, guinea
pigs to test the alertness of the Bolo. Or maybe they'd
tried creeping up, dead slow, an inch a day; it hadn't
worked. . . .
Tiny night creatures scuttled ahead. They would be
safe here in the shadow of the Troll where no predator
bigger than a mouse could move. I stumbled, diverted
my course around a ten-foot hollow, the eroded crater
of a near miss.
Now I could see the great moss-coated treads, sunk a
foot into the earth, the nests of field mice tucked in the
spokes of the yard-high bogies. The entry hatch was
above, a hairline against the great curved flank. There
were rungs set in the flaring tread shield. I reached up,
got a grip and hauled myself up. My chain clanked
against the metal. I found the door lever, held on, and
pulled.
It resisted, then turned. There was the hum of a servo
motor, a crackling of dead gaskets. The hairline wid-
ened and showed me a narrow cOmpanionway, green-
anodized dural with black polymer treads, a bulkhead
with a fire extinguisher, an embossed steel data plate
that said bolo division of general motors corpora-
tion and below, in 'smaller type, unit, combat, bolo
mark iii.
I pulled myself inside and went up into the Christmas
tree glow of instrument lights.
The control cockpit was small, utilitarian, with two

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
101
deep-padded seats set among screens, dials, levers. I
sniffed the odors of oil, paint, the characteristic ether
and ozone of a nuclear generator. There was a faint
hum in the air from idling relay servos. The clock
showed ten past four. Either it was later than I thought,
or the chronometer had lost time in the last eighty
years. But I had no time to lose. . . .
I slid into the seat, flipped back the cover of the com-
mand control console. The cancel key was the big
white one. I pulled it down and let it snap back, like a
clerk ringing up a sale.
A pattern of dots on the status display screen flicked
out of existence. Mallon was safe from his pet troll now.
It hadn't taken me long to carry out my orders. I
knew what to do next: I'd planned it all during my walk
out. Now I had thirty seconds to stack the deck in my
favor.
I reached down, hauled the festoon of quarter-inch
armored cable up in front of me. I hit a switch, and the
inner conning cover—a disk of inch-thick armor—slid
back. I shoved a loop of the flexible cable up through
the aperture, reversed the switch. The cover slid back—
sliced the armored cable like macaroni.
I took a deep breath, and my hands went to the com-
bat alert switch, hovered over it.
It was the smart thing to do—the easy thing. All I
had to do was punch a key, and the 9-mm.'s would open
up, scythe Mallon and his crew down like cornstalks.
But the scything would mow Renada down, along
with the rest. And if I went—even without firing a
shot—Mallon would keep his promise to cut that white
throat. . . .
My head was out of the noose now but I would have
to put it back—for a while.
I leaned sideways, reached back under the panel,
groped for a small fuse box. My fingers were clumsy. I
took a breath, tried again. The fuse dropped out in my
hand. The Bolo's IR^rcuit was dead now. With a few

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
more seconds to work, I could have knocked out other
circuits—but the time had run out.
I grabbed the cut ends of my lead wire, knotted them
around the chain and got out fast.
VIII
Mallon waited, crouched behind the revetment.
"It's safe now, is it?" he grated. I nodded. He stood,
gripping his gun.
"Now we'll try it together."
I went over the parapet, Mallon following with his
gun ready. The lights followed us to the Bolo. Mallon
clambered up to the open port, looked around inside,
then dropped back down beside me. He looked excited
now.
"That does it, Jackson! I've waited a long time for
this. Now I've got all the mana there is!"
"Take a look at the cable on my ankle," I said softly.
He narrowed his eyes, stepped back, gun aimed, darted
a glance at the cable looped to the chain.
"I cut it, Toby. I was alone in the Bolo with the cable
cut—and I didn't fire. I could have taken your toy and
set up in business for myself, but I didn't."
"What's that supposed, to buy you?" Mallon rasped.
"As you said—we need each other. That cut cable
proves you can trust me."
Mallon smiled. It wasn't a nice smile. "Safe, were
you? Come here." I walked along with him to the back
of the Bolo. A heavy copper wire hung across the rear
of the machine, trailing off into the grass in both direc-
tions.
"I'd have burned you at the first move. Even with the
cable cut, the armored cover would have carried the full
load right into the cockpit with you. But don't be ner-
vous. I've got other jobs for you." He jabbed the gun
muzzle hard into my chest, pushing me back. "Now get
moving," he snarled. "And don't ever threaten the
Baron again."

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
103
"The years have done more than shrivel your face,
Toby," I said. "They've cracked your brain."
He laughed, a short bark. "You could be right.
What's sane and what isn't? I've got a vision in my
mind—and I'll make it come true. If that's insanity, it's
better than what the mob has."
Back at the parapet, Mallon turned to me. "I've had
this campaign planned in detail for years, Jackson. Ev-
erything's ready. We move out in half an hour—before
any traitors have time to take word to my enemies. Pig
Eye and Dunger will keep you from being lonely while
I'm away. When I get back—Well, maybe you're right
about working together." He gestured and my whiskery
friend and his sidekick loomed up. "Watch him," he
said.
"Genghis Khan is on the march, eh?" I said, "With
nothing between you and the goodies but a five-
hundred-ton Bolo . . ."
"The Lesser Troll. . . ." He raised his hands and
made crushing motions, like a man crumbling dry earth.
"I'll trample it under my treads."
"You're confused, Toby. The Bolo has treads. You
just have a couple of fallen arches."
"It's the same. I am the Great Troll." He showed me
his teeth and walked away.
I moved along between Dunger and Pig Eye, toward
the lights of the garage.
"The back entrance again," I said. "Anyone would
think you were ashamed of me."
"You need more training, hah?" Dunger rasped.
"Hold him, Pig Eye." He unhooked his club and swung
it loosely in his hand, glancing around. We were near
the trees by the drive. There was no one in sight except
the crews near the Bolo and a group by the front of the
palace. Pig Eye gave my arm a twist and shifted his grip
to his old favorite stranglehold. I was hoping he would.
Dunger whipped the club up, and I grabbed Pig Eye's
arm with both hands and leaned forward like a Japa-

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
nese admiral reporting to the Emperor. Pig Eye went up
and over, just in time to catch Dunger's club across the
back. They went down together. I went for the club, but
Whiskers was faster than he looked. He rolled clear, got
to his knees, and laid it across my left arm, just below
the shoulder.
I heard the bone go. . . .
I was back on my feet, somehow. Pig Eye lay
sprawled before me. I heard him whining as though
from a great distance. Dunger stood six feet away, the
ring of black beard spread in a grin like a hyena smell-
ing dead meat.
"His back's broke," he said. "Hell of a sound he's
making. I been waiting for you; I wanted you to hear
it."
"I've heard it," I managed. My voice seemed to be
coming off a worn sound track. "Surprised . . . you
didn't work me over . . . while I was busy with the
arm."
"Uh-uh. I like a man to know what's going on when I
work him over." He stepped in, rapped the broken arm
lightly with the club. Fiery agony choked a groan off in
my throat. I backed a step, he stalked me.
"Pig Eye wasn't much, but he was my pal. When I'm
through with you, I'll have to kill him. A man with a
broken back's no use to nobody. His'll be finished pret-
ty soon now, but not you. You'll be around a long time
yet; but I'll get a lot of fun out of you before the Baron
gets back."
I was under the trees now. I had some wild thoughts
about grabbing up a club of my own, but they were just
thoughts. Dunger set himself and his eyes dropped to
my belly. I didn't wait for it; I lunged at him. He
laughed and stepped back, and the club cracked my
head. Not hard; just enough to send me down. I got my
legs under me and started to get up—
There was a hint of motion from the shadows behind
Dunger. I shook my head to cover any expression that

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
105
might have showed, let myself drop back.
"Get up," Dunger said. The smile was gone now. He
aimed a kick. "Get up—"
He froze suddenly, then whirled. His hearing must
have been as keen as a jungle cat's; I hadn't heard a
sound.
The old man stepped into view, his white hair plas-
tered wet to his skull, his big hands spread. Dunger
snarled, jumped in and whipped the club down; I heard
it hit. There was a flurry of struggle, then Dunger stum-
bled back, empty-handed.
I was on my feet again now. I made a lunge for
Dunger as he roared and charged. The club in the old
man's hand rose and fell. Dunger crashed past and into
the brush. The old man sat down suddenly, still holding
the club. Then he let it fall and lay back. I went toward
him and Dunger rushed me from the side. I went down
again.
I was dazed, but not feeling any pain now. Dunger
was standing over the old man. I could see the big lean
figure lying limply, arms outspread—and a white bone
handle, incongruously new and neat against the shabby
mackinaw. The club lay on the ground a few feet away.
I started crawling for it. It seemed a long way, and it
was hard for me to move my legs, but I kept at it. The
light rain was falling again now, hardly more than a
mist. Far away there were shouts and the sound of
engines starting up. Mallon's convoy was moving out.
He had won. Dunger had won, too. The old man had
tried, but it hadn't been enough. But if I could reach the
club, and swing it just once. . . .
Dunger was looking down at the old man. He leaned,
withdrew the knife, wiped it on his trouser leg, hitching
up his pants to tuck it away in its sheath. The club was
smooth and heavy under my hand. I got a good grip on
it, got to my feet. I waited until Dunger turned, and
then I hit him across the top of the skull with everything
I had left. . . .
* * *

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
I thought the old man was dead until he blinked sud-
denly. His features looked relaxed now, peaceful, the
skin like parchment stretched over bone. I took his
gnarled old hand and rubbed it. It was as cold as a
drowned sailor's.
"You waited for me, Old Timer?" I said inanely. He
movecPhis head minutely, and looked at me. Then his
mouth moved. I leaned close to catch what he was say-
ing. His voice was fainter than lost hope.
"Mom .. . told me. . . wait for you.... She said ...
you'd . . . come back some day. . . ."
I felt my jaw muscles knotting.
Inside me something broke and flowed away like
molten metal. Suddenly my eyes were blurred—and not
only with rain. I looked at the old face before me, and
for a moment I seemed to see a ghostly glimpse of an-
other face, a small round face that looked up.
He was speaking again. I put my head down:
"Was I. . . good . . . boy . .. Dad?" Then the eyes
closed.
I sat for a long time, looking at the still face. Then I
folded the hands on the chest and stood.
"You were more than a good boy, Timmy," I said.
"You were a good man."
IX
My blue suit was soaking wet and splattered with mud,
plus a few flecks of what Dunger had used for brains,
but it still carried the gold eagles on the shoulders.
The attendant in the garage didn't look at my face.
The eagles were enough for him. I stalked to a vast
black Bentley—a '79 model, I guessed, from the con-
servative eighteen-inch tail fins—and jerked the door
open. The gauge showed three-quarters full. I opened
the glove compartment, rummaged, found nothing. But
then it wouldn't be up front with the chauffeur. . . .
I pulled open the back door. There was a crude black

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
107
leather holster riveted against the smooth pale-gray
leather, with the butt of a 4-mm. showing. There was
another one on the opposite door, and a power rifle
slung from straps on the back of the driver's seat.
Whoever owned the Bentley was overcompensating
his insecurity. I took a pistol, tossed it onto the front
seat and slid in beside it. The attendant gaped at me as
I eased my left arm into my lap and twisted to close the
door. I started up. There was a bad knock, but she ran
all right. I flipped a switch and cold lances of light
speared out into the rain.
At the last instant the attendant started forward with
his mouth open to say something, but I didn't wait to
hear it. I gunned out into the night, swung into the grav-
eled drive, and headed for the gate. Mallon had had it
all his way so far, but maybe it still wasn't too late. . . .
Two sentries, looking miserable in shiny black pon-
chos, stepped out of the guard hut as I pulled up. One
peered in at me, then came to a sloppy position of at-
tention and presented arms. I reached for the gas pedal
and the second sentry called something. The first man
looked startled, then swung the gun down to cover me. I
eased a hand toward my pistol, brought it up fast and
fired through the glass. Then the Bentley was roaring
off into the dark along the potholed road that led into
town. I thought I heard a shot behind me, but I wasn't
sure.
I took the river road south of town, pounding at
reckless speed over the ruined blacktop, gaining on the
lights of Mallon's horde paralleling me a mile to the
north. A quarter-mile from the perimeter fence the
Bentley broke a spring and skidded into a ditch.
I sat for a moment taking deep breaths to drive back
the compulsive drowsiness that was sliding down over
my eyes like a visor. My arm throbbed like a cauterized
stump. I needed a few minutes' rest. . . .
A sound brought me awake like an old maid smelling
cigar smoke in the bedroom: the rise and fall of heavy

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
engines in convoy. Mallon was coming up at flank
speed.
I got out of the car and headed off along the road at a
trot, holding my broken arm with my good one to ease
the jarring pain. My chances had been as slim as a gam-
bler's wallet all along, but if Mallon beat me to the ob-
jective, they dropped to nothing.
The eastern sky had taken on a faint gray tinge,
against which I could make out the silhouetted gate-
posts and the dead floodlights a hundred yards ahead.
The roar of engines was getting louder. There were
other sounds, too: a few shouts, the chatter of a 9-mm.,
the boom! of something heavier, and once a long-drawn
whoosh! of falling masonry. With his new toy Mallon
was dozing his way through the men and buildings that
got in his way.
I reached the gate, picked my way over fallen wire
mesh, then headed for the Primary Site.
I couldn't run now. The broken slabs tilted crazily, in
no pattern. I slipped, stumbled, but kept my feet. Be-
hind me headlights threw shadows across the slabs. It
wouldn't be long now before someone in Mallon's task
force spotted me and opened up with the guns—
The whoop! whoop! whoop! of the guardian Bolo
cut across the field.
Across the broken concrete I saw the two red eyes
flash, sweeping my way. I looked toward the gate. A
massed rank of vehicles stood in a battalion front just
beyond the old perimeter fence, engines idling, ranged
for a hundred yards on either side of a wide gap at the
gate. I looked for the high silhouette of Mallon's Bolo,
and saw it far off down the avenue, picked out in red,
white, and green navigation lights, a jeweled dread-
nought. A glaring cyclopean eye at the top darted a
blue-white cone of light ahead, swept over the waiting
escort, outlined me like a set-shifter caught onstage by
the rising curtain.
The whoop! whoop! sounded again; the automated

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
109
sentry Bolo was bearing down on me along the dancing
lane of light.
I grabbed at the plastic disk in my pocket as though
holding it in my hand would somehow heighten its po-
tency. I didn't know if the Lesser Troll was pro-
grammed to exempt me from destruction or not; and
there was only one way to find out.
It wasn't too late to turn around and run for it. Mal-
lon might shoot—or he might not. I could convince him
that he needed me, that together we could grab twice as
much loot. And then, when he died—
I wasn't really considering it; it was the kind of
thought that flashes through a man's mind like heat
lightning when time slows in the instant of crisis. It was
hard to be brave with broken bone ends grating, but
what I had to do didn't take courage. I was a small,
soft, human grub, stepped on but still moving, caught
on the harsh plain of broken concrete between the clash
of chrome-steel titans. But I knew which direction to
take.
The Lesser Troll rushed toward me in a roll of
thunder and I went to meet it.
It stopped twenty yards from me, loomed massive as
a cliff. Its heavy guns were dead, I knew. Without them
it was no more dangerous than a farmer with a
shotgun—
But against me a shotgun was enough.
The slab under me trembled as if in anticipation. I
squinted against the dull-red IR beams that pivoted to
hold me, waiting while the Troll considered. Then the
guns elevated, pointed over my head like a benediction.
The Bolo knew me.
The guns traversed fractionally. I looked back to-
ward the enemy line, saw the Great Troll coming up
now, closing the gap, towering over its waiting escort
like a planet among moons. And the guns of the Lesser
Troll tracked it as it came—the empty guns that for
twenty years had held Mallon's scavengers at bay.

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
The noise of engines was deafening now. The waiting
line moved restlessly, pulverizing old concrete under
churning treads. I didn't realize I was being fired on
until I saw chips fly to my left, and heard the howl of
ricochets.
It was time to move. I scrambled for the Bolo, snort-
ed at the stink of hot oil and ozone, found the rusted
handholds, and pulled myself up—
Bullets spanged off metal above me. Someone was
trying for me with a power rifle.
The broken arm hung at my side like a fence-post
nailed to my shoulder, but I wasn't aware of the pain
now. The hatch stood open half an inch. I grabbed the
lever, strained; it swung wide. No lights came up to
meet me. With the port cracked, they'd burned out long
ago. I dropped down inside, wriggled through the nar-
row crawl space into the cockpit. It was smaller than
the Mark III—and it was occupied.
In the faint green light from the panel the dead man
crouched over the controls, one desiccated hand in a
shriveled black glove clutching the control bar. He wore
a GI weather suit and a white crash helmet, and one
foot was twisted nearly backward, caught behind a jack
lever.
The leg had been broken before he died. He must
have jammed the foot and twisted it so that the pain
would hold off the sleep that had come at last. I leaned
forward to see the face. The blackened and mummified
features showed only the familiar anonymity of death,
but the bushy reddish mustache was enough.
"Hello, Mac," I said. "Sorry to keep you waiting; I
got held up."
I wedged myself into the copilot's seat, flipped the IR
screen switch. The eight-inch panel glowed, showed me
the enemy Bolo trampling through the fence three
hundred yards away, then moving onto the ramp, drag-
ging a length of rusty chain-link like a bridal train be-
hind it.
I put my hand on the control bar. "I'll take it now,

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS
111
Mac." I moved the bar, and the dead man's hand
moved with it.
"Okay, Mac," I said. "We'll do it together."
I hit the switches, canceling the preset response pat-
tern. It had done its job for eighty years, but now it was
time to crank in a little human strategy.
My Bolo rocked slightly under a hit and I heard the
tread shields drop down. The chair bucked under me as
Mallon moved in, pouring in the fire.
Beside me, Mac nodded patiently. It was old stuff to
him. I watched the tracers on the screen. Hosing me
down with contact exploders probably gave Mallon a
lot of satisfaction, but it couldn't hurt me. It would be a
different story when he tired of the game and tried the
heavy stuff.
I threw in the drive, backed rapidly. Mallon's tracers
followed for a few yards, then cut off abruptly. I pivot-
ed, flipped on my polyarcs, raced for the position I had
selected across the field, then swung to face Mallon as
he moved toward me. It had been a long time since he
had handled the controls of a Bolo; he was rusty, rely-
ing on his automatics. I had no heavy rifles, but my
popguns were okay. I homed my 4-mm. solid-slug can-
non on Mallon's polyarc, pressed the fire button.
There was a scream from the high-velocity-feed mag-
azine. The blue-white light flared and went out. The
Bolo's defenses could handle anything short of an H-
bomb, pick a missile out of the stratosphere fifty miles
away, devastate a county with one round from its mor-
tars—but my BB gun at point-blank range had poked
out its eye.
I switched everything off and sat silent, waiting. Mal-
lon had come to a dead stop. I could picture him staring
at the dark screens, slapping levers and cursing. He
would be confused, wondering what had happened.
With his lights gone, he'd be on radar now—not very
sensitive at this range, not too conscious of detail.. ..

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
I watched my panel. An amber warning light winked.
Mallon's radar was locked on me.
He moved forward again, then stopped; he was hav-
ing trouble making up his mind. I flipped a key to drop
a padded shock frame in place, and braced myself. Mal-
lon would be getting mad now.
Crimson danger lights flared on the board and I
rocked under the recoil as my interceptors flashed out
to meet Mallon's C-SC's and detonate them in incandes-
cent rendezvous over the scarred concrete between us.
My screens went white, then dropped back to secondary
brilliance, flashing stark black-and-white. My ears
hummed like trapped hornets.
The sudden silence was like a vault door closing.
I sagged back, feeling like Quasimodo after a wild
ride on the bells. The screens blinked bright again, and
I watched Mallon, sitting motionless now in his near
blindness. On his radar screen I would show as a
blurred hill; he would be wondering why I hadn't re-
turned his fire, why I hadn't turned and run, why . . .
why. ...
He lurched and started toward me. I waited, then
eased back, slowly. He accelerated, closing in to come
to grips at a range where even the split-microsecond re-
sponse of my defenses would be too slow to hold off his
fire. And I backed, letting him gain, but not too fast....
Mallon couldn't wait.
He opened up, throwing a mixed bombardment from
his 9-mm.s, his infinite repeaters, and his C-SC's. I held
on, fighting the battering frame, watching the screens.
The gap closed: a hundred yards, ninety, eighty.
The open silo yawned in Mallon's path now, but he
didn't see it. The mighty Bolo came on, guns bellowing
in the night, closing for the kill. On the brink of the
fifty-foot-wide hundred-yard-deep pit, it hesitated as
though sensing danger. Then it moved forward.
I saw it rock, dropping its titanic prow, showing its
broad back, gouging the blasted pavement as its guns
bore on the ground. Great sheets of sparks flew as the

THE NIGHT OF THE TROLLS	113
treads reversed, too late. The Bolo hung for a moment
longer, then slid down as majestically as a sinking liner,
its guns still firing into the pit like a challenge to Hell.
And then it was gone. A dust cloud boiled for a mo-
ment, then whipped away as displaced air tornadoed
from the open mouth of the silo.
And the earth trembled under the impact far below.
x
The doors of the Primary Site blockhouse were nine-
foot-high eight-inch-thick panels of solid chromalloy
that even a Bolo would have slowed down for, but they
slid aside for my electropass like a shower curtain at the
YW. I went into a shadowy room where eighty years of
silence hung like black crepe on a coffin. The tiled floor
was still immaculate, the air fresh. Here, at the heart of
the Aerospace Center, all systems were still go.
In the central control bunker, nine rows of green
lights glowed on the high panel over red letters that
spelled out stand by to fire. A foot to the left the
big white lever stood in the unlocked position, six
inches from the outstretched fingertips of the mummi-
fied corpse strapped into the controller's chair. To the
right a red glow on the monitor indicated the locked
doors open.
I rode the lift down to K level, stepped out onto the
steel-railed platform that hugged the sweep of the star-
ship's hull and stepped through into the narrow COC.
On my right three empty stasis tanks stood open, fes-
tooned cabling draped in disorder. To the left were the
four sealed covers under which Day, Macy, Cruciani,
and Black waited. I went close, read dials. Slender
needles trembled minutely to the beating of sluggish
hearts.
They were alive.
I left the ship, sealed the inner and outer ports. Back
in the control bunker, the monitor panel showed all
clear for launch now. I studied the timer, set it,

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
turned back to the master panel. The white lever was
smooth and cool under my hand. It seated with a click.
The red hand of the launch clock moved off jerkily, the
ticking harsh in the silence.
Outside, the Bolo waited. I climbed to a perch in the
open conning tower twenty feet above the broken pave-
ment, moved off toward the west where sunrise colors
picked out the high towers of the palace.
I rested the weight of my splinted and wrapped arm
on the balcony rail, looking out across the valley and the
town to the misty plain under which Prometheus
waited.
"There's something happening now," Renada said. I
took the binoculars, watched as the silo doors rolled
back.
"There's smoke," Renada said.
"Don't worry, just cooling gases being vented off." I
looked at my watch. "Another minute or two and man
makes the biggest jump since the first lungfish crawled
out on a mudflat."
"What will they find out there?"
I shook my head. "Homo Terra Firma can't even
conceive of what Homo Astra has ahead of him."
"Twenty years they'll be gone. It's a long time to
wait."
"We'll be busy trying to put together a world for
them to come back to. I don't think we'll be bored."
"Look!" Renada gripped my good arm. A long sil-
very shape, huge even at the distance of miles, rose
slowly out of the earth, poised on a brilliant ball of
white fire. Then the sound came, a thunder that pene-
trated my bones, shook the railing under my hand. The
fireball lengthened into a silver-white column with the
ship balanced at its tip. Then the column broke free,
rose up, up. . . .
I felt Renada's hand touch mine. I gripped it hard.
Together we watched as Prometheus took man's gift of
fire back to the heavens.

THUNDERHEAD
Carnaby folded his cards without showing them, tossed
them into the center of the table. "Time for me to make
my TX." He pushed back his chair and rose, a tall,
wide-shouldered, gray-haired man, still straight-backed,
but thickening through the body now. "It's just as well.
You boys pretty well cleaned me out for tonight."
"You still got the badge," a big-faced man with quick
sly eyes said. "Play you a hand of showdown for it."
Carnaby rubbed a thumb across the tiny jeweled
comet in his lapel and smiled slightly. "Fleet property,
Sal," he said.
The big-faced man showed a glint of gold tooth,
flicked his eyes at the others. "Yeah," he said. "I guess I
forgot." He winked at a foxy man on his left.
"Say, uh, any promotions come through yet?" He
was grinning openly at Carnaby now.
"Not yet." Carnaby pushed his chair in.
"Twenty-one years in grade," Sal said genially.
"Must be some kind of record." He took out a tooth-
pick and plied it on a back tooth.
"Shut up, Sal," one of the other men said. "Leave
Jimmy make his TX."
"All these years, with no transfer, no replacement,"
Sal persisted. "Not even a letter from home. Looks like
maybe they forgot you're out here, Carnaby."

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
"It's not Jim's fault if they don't get in touch," a
white-haired man said. "Meantime, he's carrying out his
orders."
"Some orders." Sal lolled back in his chair. "Kind of
makes a man wonder if he ever really had any orders."
"I seen his orders myself, the day the cruiser dropped
him in here," the white-haired man said. "He was to set
up the beacon station and man it until he was relieved.
It ain't his fault if they ain't been back for him."
"Yeah." Sal shot a hard glance at the speaker. "I
know you 'claim.'"
The white-haired man frowned. "What do you mean,
'claim'?"
"Take it easy, Harry." Carnaby caught the big-faced
man's eyes, held them. "He didn't mean anything—did
you, Sal?"
Sal looked at Carnaby for a long moment. Then he
grunted a laugh and reached to rake in the pot. "Nah, I
didn't mean anything."
II
A cold wind whipped at Carnaby as he walked alone
past the half-dozen ramshackle stores. They comprised
the business district of the single surviving settlement on
the frontier planet Longone.
At the foot of the unpaved street a figure detached it-
self from the shadow under a polemounted light.
"Hello, Lieutenant Carnaby," a youthful voice greet-
ed him. "I been waiting for you."
"Hello, Terry." Carnaby swung his gate open.
"You're out late."
"I been working on my Blue codes, Lieutenant." The
boy followed him up the path, describing the difficulties
he had encountered in mastering Fleet cryptographic
theory. Inside the modest bungalow, Carnaby went into
the small room he used as an office, took the gray dust-
cover from the compact Navy issue VFP transmitter set

THUNDERHEAD
117
up on a small desk beside a rough fieldstone fireplace.
He settled himself in the chair before it with a sigh,
flicked on the send and scr switches, studied the
half-dozen instrument faces, carefully noted their read-
ings in a dark-blue polyon-backed notebook.
The boy stood by as Carnaby depressed the tape key
which would send the recorded call letters of the one-
man station flashing outward as a shaped wavefront,
propagated at the square of the speed of light.
"Lieutenant." The boy shook his head. "Every night
you send out your call. How come you never get an an-
swer?"
Carnaby shook his head. "I don't know, Terry.
Maybe they're too busy fighting the Djann to check in
with every little JN beacon station on the Outline."
"You said after five years they were supposed to
come back and pick you up," the boy persisted.
"Why—"
There was a sharp wavering tone from the round
wire-mesh-covered speaker. A dull red light winked on,
blinked in a rapid flutter, settled down to a steady glow.
The audio signal firmed to a raucous buzz.
"Lieutenant!" Terry blurted. "Something's coming
in!"
hi
For a moment Carnaby sat rigid. Then he thumbed
the big s-r key to receive, flipped the selector lever to
unsc, snapped a switch tagged rcd.
". . . riority, to all stations," a voice faint with dis-
tance whispered through a rasp and crackle of star-
static. Cincsec One-two-oh to . . . Cincfleet Nine . . .
serial one-oh-four ... stations copy ... Terem Aldo ...
Terem . . . pha . . . this message . . . two . . . Part
One . . ."
"What is it, Lieutenant?" The boy's voice broke with
excitement.

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
"A Fleet Action signal," Carnaby said tensely. "An
all-station, recorded. I'm taping it; if they repeat it a
couple of times, I'll get it all."
They listened, heads close to the speaker grill; the
voice faded and swelled. It reached the end of the mes-
sage, began again: "Red priority . . . tions . . . incsec
One-two. . . ."
The message repeated five times; then the voice
ceased. The wavering carrier hum went on another five
seconds, cut off. The red light winked out. Carnaby
flipped over the send key, twisted the selector to
voc-sq.
"JN Thirty-seven Ace Trey to Cincsec One-two-oh,"
he transmitted in a tense voice. "Acknowledging receipt
Fleet TX One-oh-four. Request clarification."
Then he waited, his face taut, for a reply to his trans-
mission, which had been automatically taped, con-
densed to a one-microsecond squawk, and repeated ten
times at one second intervals.
Carnaby shook his head after a silent minute had
passed. "No good. From the sound of the Fleet beam,
Cincsec One-two-oh must be a long way from here."
"Try again, Lieutenant! Tell 'em you're here, tell 'em
it's time they came back for you! Tell 'em—"
"They can't hear me, Terry." Carnaby's face was
tight. "I haven't got the power to punch across that kind
of distance." He keyed the playback. The filtered com-
posite signal came through clearly now:
"Red priority to all stations. Cincsec One-two-oh to
Rim HQ via Cincfleet Nine-two. All Fleet Stations
copy. Pass to Terem Aldo Cerise, Terem Alpha Two
and ancillaries. This message in two parts. Part one:
CTF Forty-one reports breakthrough of Djann armed
tender on standard vector three-three-seven, mark;
three-oh-five, mark; oh-four-two. This is a Category-
One Alert. Code G applies. Class Four through Nine
stations stand by on Status Green. Part Two. Inner
Warning Line units divert all traffic lanes three-four
through seven-one. Outer Beacon Line stations activate

THUNDERHEAD	120
main beacon, pulsing code schedule gamma eight. Mes-
sage ends. All stations acknowledge."
"What's all that mean, Lieutenant?" Terry's eyes
seemed to bulge with excitement.
"It means I'm going to get some exercise, Terry."
"Exercise, how?"
Carnaby took out a handkerchief and wiped it across
his forehead. "That was a general order from Sector
Command. Looks like they've got a rogue bogey on the
loose. I've got to put the beacon on the air."
IV
He turned to look out through the curtained window
beside the bookcase toward the towering ramparts of
the nine-thousand-foot volcanic freak known as Thun-
derhead, gleaming white in the light of the small but
brilliant moon. Terry followed Carnaby's glance.
"Gosh, Lieutenant! You mean you got to climb Old
Thunderhead?"
"That's where I set the beacon up, Terry," Carnaby
said mildly. "On the highest ground around."
"Sure—but your flitter was working then!"
"It's not such a tough climb, Terry. I've made it a
few times, just to check on things." He was studying the
rugged contour of the moonlit steep, which resembled
nothing so much as a mass of snowy cumulus. There
was snow on the high ledges, but the wind would have
scoured the east face clear. . . .
"Not in the last five years, you haven't, Lieutenant!"
Terry sounded agitated.
"I haven't had a Category-One Alert, either." Carna-
by smiled.
"Maybe they didn't mean you," Terry said.
"They called for Outer Beacon Line stations. That's
me.
"They don't expect you to do it on foot," Terry pro-
tested. "This time o' year!"

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
Carnaby looked at the boy, smiling slightly. "I guess
maybe they do, Terry."
"Then they're wrong!" Terry's thin face looked pale.
"Don't go, Lieutenant!"
"It's my job, Terry. It's what I'm here for. You know
that."
"What if you never got the message?" Terry coun-
tered.
"What if the radio went on the blink, like all the
rest of the stuff you brought in here with you—the flit-
ter, and the food unit, and the scooter? Then nobody'd
expect you to get yourself killed!" The boy whirled
suddenly. He grabbed up a poker from the fireplace,
swung it against the front of the communicator, brought
it down a second time before Carnaby caught his arm.
"You shouldn't have done that, Terry," he said soft-
ly. His eyes were on the smashed instrument faces.
"That. .. hurts . . ." the lad gasped.
"Sorry." Carnaby released the boy's thin arm. He
stooped, picked up a fragment of a broken nameplate
with the words fleet signal arm.
Terry stared at him; his mouth worked as though he
wanted to speak, but couldn't find the words. "I'm
going with you," he said at last.
Carnaby shook his head. "Thanks, Terry. But you're
just a boy. I need a man along on this trip."
Terry's narrow face tightened. "Boy, hell," he said
defiantly. "I'm seventeen."
"I didn't mean anything, Terry. Just that I need a
man who's had some trail experience."
"How'm I going to get any trail experience, Lieuten-
ant, if I don't start sometime?"
"Better to start with an easier climb than Thunder-
head," Carnaby said gently. "You better go along
home now, Terry. Your uncle will be getting worried."
"When . . . when you leaving, Lieutenant?"
"Early. I'll need all the daylight I can get to make
Halliday's Roost by sundown."

THUNDERHEAD	122
v
After the boy had gone, Carnaby went to the storage
room at the rear of the house and checked over the
meager store of issue supplies. He examined the cold
suit, shook his head over the brittleness of the wiring.
At least it had been a loose fit; he'd still be able to get
into it.
He left the house then, walked down to Maverik's
store. The game had broken up, but half a dozen men
still sat around the old hydrogen space heater. They
looked up casually.
"I need a man," Carnaby said without preamble.
"I've got a climb to make in the morning."
"What's got into you?" Yank Pepper rocked his chair
back, glanced toward Sal Maverik. "Never knew you to
go in for exercises before breakfast."
"I got an Alert Signal just now," Carnaby said.
"From a Fleet unit in Deep Space. They've scared up a
Djann blockade-runner. My orders are to activate the
beacon."
Maverik clattered a garbage can behind the bar.
"Kind of early in the evening for falling out of bed with
a bad dream, ain't it?" he inquired loudly.
"You got a call in from the Navy?" The white-haired
man named Harry frowned at Carnaby. "Hell, Jimmy, I
thought. . . ."
"I just need a man along to help me pack gear as far
as Halliday's Roost. I'll make the last leg alone."
"Ha!" Pepper looked around. "That's all: just as far
as Halliday's Roost!':
"You gone nuts, Carnaby?" Sal Maverick growled.
"Nobody in his right mind would tackle that damned
rock after first snow, even if he had a reason."
"Halliday's hut ought to still be standing," Carnaby
said. "We can overnight there, and—"
"Jimmy, wait a minute," Harry said. "All this about

*<S6
KEITH LAUMER
orders, and climbing old Thunderhead; it don't make
sense! You mean after all these years they pick you to
pull a damn fool stunt like that?"
"It's a general order to all Outer Line stations. They
don't know my flitter's out of action."
Harry shook his head. "Forget it, Jimmy. Nobody
can make a climb like that at this time of year."
"Fleet wants that beacon on the air," Carnaby said.
"I guess they've got a reason; maybe a good reason."
VI
Maverik spat loudly in the direction of a sand-filled
can. "You're the one's been the bigshot Navy man for
the last twenty years around here," he said. "The big
man with the fancy badge. Okay, your brass want you
to go run up a hill, go ahead. Don't come in here beg-
ging for somebody to do your job for you."
"Listen, Jim," Harry said urgently. "I remember
when you first came here, a young kid in your twenties,
fresh out of the Academy. Five years you was to be
here; they've left you here to rot for twenty. Now they
come in with this piece of tomfoolery. Well, to hell with
'em! After five years, all bets were off. You got no call
to risk your neck—"
"It's still my job, Harry."
Harry rose and came over to Carnaby. He put a hand
on the big man's shoulder. "Let's quit pretending, Jim,"
he said softly. "They're never coming back for you, you
know that. The high tide of the Concordiat dropped you
here. For twenty years the traffic's been getting sparser,
the transmitters dropping off the air. Adobe's deserted
now, and Petreac. Another few years and Longone'll be
dead, too."
"We're not dead yet."
"That message might have come from the other end
of the galaxy, Jim! For all you know, it's been on the
way for a hundred years!"
Carnaby faced him, a big solidly-built man with a

THUNDERHEAD
123
lined face. "You could be right on all counts," he said.
"It wouldn't change anything."
Harry sighed, turned away. "If I was twenty years
younger, I might go along, just to keep you company,
Jimmy. But I'm not. I'm old."
He turned to face Carnaby. "Like you, Jim. Just too
old."
"Thanks anyway, Harry." Carnaby looked at the
other men in the room, nodded slowly. "Sal's right," he
said. "It's my lookout, and nobody else's." He turned
and pushed back out into the windy street.
Vii
Aboard the Armed Picket Malthusa, five million tons,
nine months out of Fleet HQ on Van Dieman's World
on a routine Deep Space sweep, Signal Lieutenant Pryor,
Junior Communications Officer on message deck duty,
listened to the playback of the brief transmission the
Duty NCOIC had called to his attention:
JN Thirty-seven Ace Trey to Cincsec One . . . Fleet
TX . . . clarification," the voice came through with
much crackling.
"That's all I could get out of it Lieutenant," the sig-
nalman said. "I wouldn't have picked it up if I hadn't
been filtering the Y band looking for AKs on One-oh-
four."
The officer punched keys, scanning a listing that
flashed onto the small screen on his panel.
"There's no JN Thirty-seven Ace Trey listed, Char-
lie," he said. He keyed the playback, listened to the gar-
bled message again.
"Maybe it's some outworld sheepherder amusing
himself."
"With WFP equipment? On Y channel?" The NCO
furrowed his forehead.
"Yeah." The lieutenant frowned. "See if you can get
back to him with a station query, Charlie. See who this
guy is."

*<S6
125	KEITH LAUMER
"I'll try, sir, but he came in with six millisec lag. That
puts him halfway from here to Rim."
The lieutenant crossed the room with the NCO, stood
by as the latter sent the standard Confirm ID code.
There was no reply.
"I guess we lost him, sir. You want me to log him?"
"No, don't bother."
The big repeater panel chattered then, and the offi-
cer hurried back to his console, settled down to the te-
dious business of transmitting follow-up orders to the
fifty-seven hundred Fleet Stations of the Inner Line.
viii
The orange sun of Longone was still below the eastern
horizon when Carnaby came out the gate to the road.
Terry Sickle was there, waiting for him.
"You got to get up early to beat me out, Lieutenant,"
he said in a tone of forced jocularity.
"What are you doing here, Terr'?"
"I heard you still need a man," the lad said, less
cocky now.
Carnaby started to shake his head, and Terry cut in
with, "I can help pack some of the gear you'll need to
try the high slope."
"Terry, go on back home, son. That high slope's no
place for you."
"How'm I going to qualify for the Fleet when your
ship comes, Lieutenant, if I don't start getting some ex-
perience?"
"I appreciate it, Terry. It's good to know I have a
friend. But—"
"Lieutenant—what's a friend, if he can't help you
when you need it?"
"I need you here when I get back, to have a hot meal
waiting for me, Terry."
"Lieutenant. . . ." All the spring had gone from the
boy's stance. "I've known you all my life. All I ever

THUNDERHEAD -
125
wanted was to be with you on Navy business. If you go
up there, alone. . . ."
Carnaby looked at the boy, the dejected slump of his
thin shoulders.
"Your uncle know you're here, Terry?"
"Sure. Uh, he thought it was a fine idea, me going
with you."
"AH right, then, Terry, if you want to. As far as Hal-
liday's Roost. Thanks."
"Oh, boy, Lieutenant! We'll have a swell time. I'm a
good climber, you'll see!" He grinned from ear to ear,
squinting through the early gloom at Carnaby.
"Hey, Lieutenant, you're rigged out like a real . . ."
he broke off. "I thought you'd, uh, wore out all your
issue gear," he finished lamely.
"Seemed like for this trek I ought to be in uniform,"
Carnaby said. "And the coldsuit will feel good, up on
the high slopes."
ix
The two moved off down the dark street. There were
lights on in Sal Maverik's general store. The door
opened as they came up: Sal emerged, carrying a flour
sack, his mackinaw collar turned up around his ears. He
grunted a greeting, then swung to stare at Carnaby.
"Hey, by God! Look at him, dressed fit to kill."
"The Lieutenant got a hot-line message in from Fleet
Headquarters last night." Terry said. "We got no time
to jaw with you, Maverik." He brushed past the heavy-
set man.
"You watch your mouth, boy," Sal snapped. "Carna-
by," he raised his voice, "this poor kid the best you
could get to hold your hand?"
"What do you mean, 'poor kid'?" Terry started back.
Carnaby caught his arm.
"We're on official business, Terry," he said. "Eyes
front and keep them there."

126
KEITH LAUMER
"Playing Navy, hah? That's a hot one," the store-
keeper called after the two. "What kind of orders you
get? To take a goonybird census up in the foothills?"
"Don't pay him no attention, Lieutenant," Terry
said, his voice unsteady. "He's as full of meanness as a
rotten mealspud is of weevils."
"He's had some big disappointments in his life,
Terry. That makes a man bitter."
"I guess you did too, Lieutenant. It ain't made you
mean." Terry looked sideways at Carnaby. "I don't
reckon you beat out the competition to get an Academy
appointment and then went through eight years of train-
ing just for this." He made a gesture that took in the
sweep of the semiarid landscape stretching away to the
big world's far horizon, broken only by the massive out-
croppings of the pale, convoluted lava cores spaced at
intervals of a few miles along a straight fault line that
extended as far as men had explored the desolate world.
Carnaby laughed softly. "No, I had big ideas about
seeing the galaxy, making fleet admiral, and coming
home covered with gold braid and glory."
"You leave any folks behind, Lieutenant?" Terry in-
quired, waxing familiar in the comradeship of the trail.
"No wife. There was a girl. And my half-brother,
Tom. A nice kid. He'd be over forty, now."
"Lieutenant—I'm sorry I busted up your transmitter.
You might have got through, gotten yourself taken off
this Godforsaken place—"
"Never mind, Terry."
The dusky sun was up now, staining the rounded,
lumpy flank of Thunderhead a deep scarlet.
Carnaby and Sickle crossed the first rock-slope, en-
tered the broken ground where the prolific rock-lizards
eyed them as they approached, then heaved themselves
from their perches, scuttled away into the black shad-
ows of the deep crevices opened in the porous rock by
the action of ten million years of wind and sand erosion
on thermal cracks.
Five hundred feet above the plain Carnaby looked

THUNDERHEAD -
127
back at the settlement. Only a mile away, it was almost
lost against the titanic spread of empty wilderness.
"Terry, why don't you go back now?" he said. "Your
uncle will have a nice breakfast waiting for you."
"I'm looking forward to sleeping out," the boy said
confidently. "We better keep pushing, or we won't make
the Roost by dark."
x
In the officers' off-duty bay Signal Lieutenant Pryor
straightened from over the billiard table as the nasal
voice of the command deck yeoman broke into the
recorded dance music: "Now hear this. Commodore
Broadly will address ship's company."
"Ten to one he says we've lost the bandit." Supply
Lieutenant Aaron eyed the annunciator panel.
"Gentlemen." The sonorous tones of the ship's com-
mander sounded relaxed, unhurried. "We now have a
clear track on the Djann blockade runner, which indi-
cates he will attempt to evade our Inner Line defenses
and lose himself in Rim territory. In this I propose to
disappoint him. I have directed Colonel Lancer to
launch interceptors to take up stations along a conic,
subsuming thirty degrees on axis from the presently
constructed vector. We may expect contact in approxi-
mately three hours' time."
A recorded bos'un's whistle shrilled the end-of-
message signal.
"So?" Aaron raised his eyebrows. "A three-million-
tonner swats a ten-thousand-ton sideboat. Big deal."
"That boat can punch just as big a hole in the block-
ade as a Super-D," Pryor said. "Not that the Djann
have any of those left to play with."
"We kicked the damned spiders back into their home
system ten years ago," Aaron said tiredly. "In my opin-
ion, the whole Containment operation's a boondoggle to
justify a ten-million-man fleet."

128
KEITH LAUMER
"As long as there are any of them alive, they're a
threat," Pryor repeated the slogan.
"Well, Broadly sounds as though he's got the bogey
in the bag." Aaron yawned.
"Maybe he has." Pryor addressed the ball carefully,
sent the ivory sphere cannoning against the target.
"He wouldn't go on record with it if he didn't think
he was on to a sure thing."
"He's a disappointed 'ceptor-jockey. What makes
him think that pirate won't duck back of some kind of a
blind spot and go dead?"
"It's worth a try—and if he nails it, it will be a feath-
er in his cap."
"Another star on his collar, you mean."
"Uh-huh, that too."
"We're wasting our time," Aaron said.
"But that's his lookout. Six ball in the corner pock-
et."
xi
As Commodore Broadly turned away from the screen
on which he had delivered his position report to the
crew of the great war vessel, his eye met that of his ex-
ecutive officer. The latter shifted his gaze uneasily.
"Well, Roy, you expect me to announce to all hands
that Cincfleet has committed a major blunder letting
this bandit slip through the picket line?" he demanded
with some asperity.
"Certainly not, sir." The officer looked worried. "But
in view of the seriousness of the breakout...."
"There are some things better kept in the highest
command channels," the commodore said shortly. "You
and I are aware of the grave consequences of a new re-
lease of their damned seed in an uncontaminated sector
of the Eastern Arm. But I see no need to arouse the
parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins of every apprentice
technician aboard in an overly candid disclosure of the
facts!"

THUNDERHEAD -
129
"I thought Containment had done its job by now,"
the captain said. "It's been three years since the last
Djann sighting outside the Reservation. It seems we're
not the only ones who're keeping things under our
hats."
Broadly frowned. "Mmmm. I agree, I'm placed at
something of a disadvantage in my tactical planning by
the oversecretiveness of the General Staff. However,
there can be no two opinions as to the correctness of my
present course."
The exec glanced ceilingward. "I hope so, sir."
"Having the admiral aboard makes you nervous,
does it, Roy?" Broadly said in a tone of heartiness.
"Well, I regard it merely as an opportunity better to dis-
play Malthusds capabilities!"
"Commodore, you don't think it would be wise to co-
ordinate with the admiral on this—"
"I'm in command of this vessel," Broadly said sharp-
ly. "I'm carrying the vice admiral as supercargo, noth-
ing more!"
"He's still Task Group CINC	"
"I'm conning this ship, Roy, not Old Carbuncle!"
Broadly rocked on his heels, watching the screen where
a quadrangle of bright points representing his intercep-
tor squadron fanned out, on an intersecting course
with the fleeing Djann vessel. "I'll pinch off this
breakthrough single-handed; and all of us will share in
the favorable attention the operation will bring us!"
xii
In his quarters on the VIP deck, the vice admiral stud-
ied the Utter Top Secret dispatch which had been hand-
ed to him five minutes earlier by his staff signal major.
"It looks as though this is no ordinary boatload of
privateers." He looked soberly at the elderly communi-
cator. "They're reported to be carrying a new weapon
of unassessed power and a cargo of spore racks that will
knock Containment into the next continuum."

130
KEITH LAUMER
"It doesn't look good, sir." The major wagged his
head.
"I note that the commodore has taken action accord-
ing to the manual." The admiral's voice was noncom-
mittal.
The major frowned. "Let's hope that's sufficient, Ad-
miral."
"It should be. The bogey's only a converted tender.
She couldn't be packing much in the way of firepower in
that space, secret weapon or no secret weapon.".
"Have you mentioned this aspect to the commodore,
sir?"
"Would it change anything, Ben?"
"Nooo. I suppose not."
"Then we'll let him carry on without any more cause
for jumpiness than the presence of a vice admiral on
board is already providing."
xiii
Crouched in his fitted acceleration cradle aboard the
Djann vessel, the One-Who-Commands studied the mo-
tion of the charged molecules in the sensory tank.
"Now the Death-Watcher dispatches his messen-
gers," he communed with the three link-brothers who
formed the Chosen Crew. "Now is the hour of the test-
ing of Djann."
"Profound is the rhythm of our epic," the One-Who-
Records sang out. "We are the Chosen-To-Be-Heroic,
and in our tiny cargo, Djann lives still, his future glory
inherent in the convoluted spores!"
"It was a grave risk to put the destiny of Djann at
hazard in this wild gamble," the One-Who-Refutes re-
minded his link-brothers. "If we fail, the generations yet
unborn will slumber on in darkness or perish in ice or
fire."
"Yet if we succeed! If the New Thing we have
learned serves well its function—then will Djann live
anew!"

THUNDERHEAD -
131
"Now the death-messengers of the Water-Being ap-
proach," the One-Who-Commands pointed out. "Link
well, brothers! The energy-aggregate waits for our
directing impulse. Now we burn away the dross of illu-
sions from the hypothesis of the theorists in the harsh
crucible of reality!"
"In such a fire the flame of Djann coruscates in
unparalleled glory!" the One-Who-Records exulted.
"Time has ordained this conjunction to try the timbre
of our souls!"
"Then channel your trained faculties, brothers." The
One-Who-Commands gathered his forces, feeling out
delicately to the ravening nexus of latent energy con-
tained in the thought-shell poised at the center of the
stressed-space field enclosing the fleeting vessel. "Hold
the sacred fire sucked from the living bodies of a million
of our fellows," he exhorted. "Shape it and hurl it in
well-directed bolts at the death-bringers, for the future
and glory of Djann!"
xiv
At noon, Carnaby and Sickle rested on a nearly hori-
zontal slope of rock that curved to meet the vertical
wall that swelled up and away overhead. Their faces
and clothes were gray with the impalpable dust whipped
up by the brisk wind. Terry spat grit from his mouth,
passed a can of hot stew and a plastic water flask to
Carnaby.
"Getting cool already," he said. "Must not be more'n
ten above freezing."
"We might get a little more snow before morning."
Carnaby eyed the milky sky. "You'd better head back
now, Terry. No point in you getting caught in a storm."
"I'm in for the play," the boy said shortly. "Say
Lieutenant, you got another transmitter up there at the
beacon station you might get through on?"
Carnaby shook his head. "Just the beacon tube, the
lens generators, and a power pack. It's a stripped-down

132
KEITH LAUMER
installation. There's a code receiver, but it's only de-
signed to receive classified instruction input."
"Too bad." They ate in silence for a few minutes,
looking out over the plain below. "Lieutenant, when
this is over," Sickle said suddenly, "we got to do some-
thing. There's got to be some way to remind the Navy
about you being here!"
Carnaby tossed the empty can aside and stood. "I put
a couple of messages on the air, sublight, years ago," he
said. "That's all I can do."
"Heck, Lieutenant, it takes six years just to make the
relay station on Goy! Then if somebody happens to
pick up the call and boost it, in another ten years some
Navy brass might even see it. And then if he's in a good
mood, he might tell somebody to look into it, next time
they're out this way!"
"Best I could do, Terry, now that the liners don't call
any more."
Carnaby finished his stew and dropped the can. He
watched it roll off downslope, clatter over the edge, a
tiny sound lost in the whine and shrill of the wind. He
looked up at the rampart ahead.
"We better get moving," he said. "We've got a long
climb to make before dark."
xv
Signal Lieutenant Pryor awoke to the strident buzz of
his bunkside telephone.
"Sir, the commodore's called a Condition Yellow,"
the message deck NCO informed him. "It looks like
that bandit blasted through our intercept and took out
two Epsilon-classes while he was at it. I got a standby
from command deck, and—"
"I'll be right up," Pryor said quickly.
Five minutes later he stood with the on-duty signals
crew, reading out an incoming from fleet. He whistled.
"Brother, they've got something new!" he looked at
Captain Aaron. "Did you check out the vector they had

THUNDERHEAD -
133
to make to reach their new position in the time they've
had?"
"Probably a foul-up in tracking." Aaron looked ruf-
fled, routed out of a sound sleep.
"The commodore's counting off the scale," the NCO
said. "He figured he had 'em boxed."
The annunciator beeped. The yeoman announced
Malthusa's commander.
"All right, you men!" The voice had a rough edge to
it now. "The enemy has an idea he can maul Fleet units
and go his way unmolested. I intend to disabuse him of
that notion! I'm ordering a course change. I'll maintain
contact with this bandit until such time as units desig-
nated for the purpose have reported his neutralization!
This vessel is under a Condition Yellow at this time and
I need not remind you that relevant sections of the
manual will be adhered to with full rigor!"
Pryor and Aaron looked at each other, eyebrows
raised. "He must mean business if he's willing to risk
straining seams with a full-vector course change," the
former said.
"So we pull six on and six off until he gets it out of
his system," Aaron growled. "I knew this cruise wasn't
going to work out as soon as I heard Old Carbuncle
would be aboard."
"What's he got to do with it? Broadly's running this
action."
"Don't worry, he'll be in it before we're through."
XVI
On the slope, three thousand feet above the plain,
Carnaby and Terry hugged the rockface, working their
way upward. Aside from the steepness of the incline, the
going was of no more than ordinary difficulty here: the
porous rock, resistant though it was to the erosive
forces that had long ago stripped away the volcanic
cone of which the remaining mass had formed the core,
had deteriorated in its surface sufficiently to afford easy

134
KEITH LAUMER
hand- and footholds. Now Terry paused, leaning
against the rock. Carnaby saw that under the layer of
dust, the boy's face was pale and drawn.
"Not much farther, Terry," he said. He settled him-
self in a secure position, his feet wedged in a cleft. His
own arms were feeling the strain now; there was the be-
ginning of a slight tremble in his knees after the hours
of climbing.
"I didn't figure to slow you down, Lieutenant." Ter-
ry's voice showed the strain of his fatigue.
"You've been leading me a tough chase, Terry." Car-
naby grinned across at him. "I'm glad of a rest." He
noted the dark hollows under the lad's eyes, the pallor
of his cheeks.
Sickle's tongue came out and touched his lips. "Lieu-
tenant—you made a try—a good try. Turn back now.
It's going to snow. You can't make it to the top in a
blizzard."
Carnaby shook his head. "It's too late in the day to
start down; you'd be caught on the slope. We'll take it
easy up to the Roost. In the morning you'll have an easy
climb down."
"Sure, Lieutenant. Don't worry about me." Terry
drew a breath, shivered with the bitter wind that
plucked at his snow jacket, started upward.
xvii
"What do you mean, lost him!" the bull roar of the
commodore rattled the screen. "Are you telling me that
this ragtag refugee has the capability to drop off the
screens of the best-equipped tracking deck in the fleet?"
"Sir," the stubborn-faced tracking officer repeated, "I
can only report that my screens register nothing within
the conic of search. If he's there—"
"He's there, mister!" The commodore's eyes glared
from under a bushy overhang of brows. "Find that ban-
dit or face a court, Captain! I haven't diverted a ship of

the fleet line
ing the objec
The trackh.
went white, mi
lieutenant.
"The old dev
growled. "Let hk
gall."
"If we lose thr
on Vandy,"
ing from
really h
"He
rangp
out i
at stfi
"We.
if it turns
"Don't
"I guess ... it'
hour." Terrv'
of the wir
their w
row re
"N
Car
Ti
cej
i>
t.I

•as keening,
ior the boy.
•ies made his
climb in this
lattering of his
..ve made it. Like
•■ng," Carnaby
Terry ate
hed him
1 you
-y're
.1 it
air or
re's one
ell, that's
.cept give him
*.acon, Terry.
n that cov-
" lights in
cks in
"led a
vith

for ...
a vivid
targeted .
exploded fr	'
in a hail of shau
Smoke boiled,
cavity. The duty NCX
stumbled toward the^vvo u.
reached an emergency voice phone,
it, the deck under him canted sharply. He scream-.,
clutched at a table for support, saw it tilt, come crashing
down on top of him. . . .
On the message deck Lieutenant Pryor clung to an
operator's stool, listening, through the stridency of the
alarm bell, to the frantic voice from command deck:
"All sections, all sections, combat stations! We're
under attack! My God, we've taken a hit—"
The voice cut off, to be replaced by the crisp tones of
Colonel Lancer, first battle officer:
"As you were. Section G-Nine-eight-seven and Nine-

_nds of
3aid coolly.
blunder into traps,
w rounded on the bat-
.e, or I'll rip those ea-
_ ...^elf!" -
-i. s mouth was a hard line; his eyes were ice
cnips.
"You can relieve me, Commodore," his voice grated.
"Until you do, I'm battle commander aboard this ves-
sel."
"By God, you're relieved, sir!' Broadly yelled. He
whirled on the startled exec standing by. "Confine this
officer to his quarters! Order full emergency accelera-
tion! This vessels on Condition Red at full combat
alert until we overtake and destroy that sneaking snake
in the grass!"

THUNDERHEAD -
139
"Commodore—at full emergency without warning,
there'll be men injured, even killed—"
"Carry out my commands, Captain, or I'll find some-
one who will!" The admiral's bellow cut off the exec.
"I'll show that filthy sneaking pack of spiders what it
means to challenge a Terran fighting ship!"
On the power deck, Chief Powerman Joe Arena
wiped the cut on his forehead, stared at the bloody rag,
hurled it aside with a curse.
"All right, you one-legged deck-apes!" he roared.
"You heard it! We're going after the bandit, full gate,
and if we melt our linings down to slag, I'll have every
man of you sign a statement of charges that'll take your
grandchildren two hundred years to pay off!"
xx
In the near darkness of the Place of Observation
aboard the Djann vessel, the ocular complex of the One-
Who-Commands glowed with a dim red sheen as he
studied the apparently black surface of the sensitive
plate. "The Death-Watcher has eaten our energy
weapon," he communicated to his three link-brothers.
"Now our dooms are in the palms of the fate-spinner."
"The Death-Watcher of the Water-Beings might have
passed us by," the One-Who-Anticipates signaled. "It
was an act of rashness to hurl the weapon at it."
"It will make a mighty song." The One-Who-
Records thrummed his resonator plates, tried a melan-
choly bass chord.
"But what egg-carrier will exude the brood-nourish-
ing honeys of strength and sagacity in response to these
powerful rhymes, if the stimulus to their creation leads
us to quick extinction?" the One-Who-Refutes queried.
"In their own brief existence these harmonies find
their justification," the One-Who-Records attested.
"The Death-Watcher shakes himself," the One-Who-
Commands stated. "Now he turns in pursuit."
The One-Who-Records emitted a booming tone.

140
KEITH LAUMER
"Gone are the great suns of Djann," he sang. "Lost are
the fair worlds that knew their youth. But the spark of
their existence glows still!"
"Now we fall outward, toward the Great Awesome-
ness," the One-Who-Anticipates commented. "Only the
blackness will know your song."
"Draw in your energies from that-which-is-extra-
neous," the One-Who-Commands ordered. "Focus the
full poignancy of your intellects on the urgency of our
need for haste! All else is vain, now. Neither singer nor
song will survive the vengeance of the Death-Watcher if
he outstrips our swift fight!"
"Though Djann and Water-Being perish, my poem is
eternal." The One-Who-Records emitted a stirring as-
sonance. "Fly, Djanni! Pursue, Death-Watcher! Let the
suns observe how we comport ourselves in this hour!"
"Exhort the remote nebulosities to attend our plight,
if you must," the One-Who-Refutes commented. "But
link your energies to ours or all is lost!"
Silent now, the Djann privateer fled outward toward
the Rim.
xxi
Carnaby awoke, lay in darkness listening to the wheez-
ing of Terry Sickle's breath. The boy didn't sound good.
Carnaby sat up, suppressing a grunt at the stiffness of
his limbs. The icy air seemed stale. He moved to the
entry, lifted the polyon flap. A cascade of powdery
snow poured in. Beyond the opening a faint glow fil-
tered down through banked snow.
He turned back to Terry as the latter coughed deeply.
"Looks like the snow's quit," Carnaby said. "It's
drifted pretty bad, but there's no wind now. How are
you feeling, Terry?"
"Not so good, Lieutenant," Sickle said weakly. He
breathed heavily, in and out. "I don't know what's got
into me. Feel hot and cold at the same time."

THUNDERHEAD -
141
Carnaby stripped off his glove, put his hand on
Sickle's forehead. It was scalding hot.
"You just rest easy here for a while, Terry. There's a
couple more cans of stew and plenty of water. I'll make
it up to the top as quickly as I can. Soon as I get back,
we'll go down. With luck, I'll have you to Doc Lin's
house by dark."
"I guess ... I guess I should have done like Doc
said." Terry's voice was a thin whisper.
"What do you mean?"
"I been taking these hyposprays. Two a day. He said
I better not miss one, but heck, I been feeling real good
lately—"
"What kind of shots, Terry?" Carnaby's voice was
tight.
"I don't know. Heck, Lieutenant, I'm no invalid!"
His voice trailed off.
"You should have told me, Terry!"
"Gosh, Lieutenant—don't worry about me! I didn't
mean nothing! Hell, I feel. . . ." He broke off to cough
deeply, rackingly.
"Terry, Terry!" Carnaby put a hand on the boy's
thin shoulder.
"I'm okay," Sickle gasped. "It's just asthma. It's
nothing."
"It's nothing—if you get your medicine on schedule,"
Carnaby said. "But—"
"I butted in on this party, Lieutenant," Terry said.
"It's my own fauit... if I come down sick." He paused
to draw a difficult breath. "You go ahead, sir . . . do
what you got to do . . . I'll be okay."
"I've got to get you back, Terry. But I've got to go up
first," Carnaby said. "You understand that, don't you?"
Terry nodded. "A man's got to do his job. . . . Lieu-
tenant. I'll be waiting ... for you . . . when you get
back."
"Listen to me carefully, Terry." Carnaby's voice was
low. "If I'm not back by this time tomorrow, you'll have

142
KEITH LAUMER
to make it back down by yourself. You understand?
Don't wait for me."
"Sure, Lieutenant, I'll just rest a while. Then I'll be
okay."
"Sooner I get started, the sooner I'll be back." Car-
naby took a can from the pack, opened it, handed it to
Terry. The boy shook his head.
"You eat it, Lieutenant. You need your strength. I
don't feel like I. . . could eat anything anyway."
"Terry, I don't want to have to pry your mouth open
and pour it in."
"All right. But open one for yourself too."
"All right, Terry."
Sickle's hand trembled as he spooned the stew to his
mouth. He ate half of the contents of the can, then
leaned back against the wall, closed his eyes. "That's all
... I want. . . ."
"All right, Terry. You get some rest now. I'll be back
before you know it." Carnaby crawled out through the
open flap, pushed his way up through loosely drifted
snow. The cold struck his face like a spiked club. He
turned the suit control up another notch, noticing as he
did that the left side seemed to be cooler than the right.
The near-vertical rise of the final crown of the peak
thrust up from the drift, dazzling white in the morning
sun. Carnaby examined the rockface for twenty feet on
either side of the hut, picked a spot where a deep crack
angled upward, started the last leg of the climb.
On the message deck, Lieutenant Pryor frowned into
the screen from which the saturnine features of Lieuten-
ant Aaron gazed back sourly.
"The commodore's going to be unhappy about this,"
Pryor said. "If you're sure your extrapolation is accu-
rate—"
"It's as good as the data I got from plotting," Aaron
snapped. "The bogey's over the make-or-break line;
we'll never catch him now. You know your trans-Ein-
steinian physics as well as I do."

THUNDERHEAD -
143
"I never heard of the Djann having anything capable
of that kind of acceleration," Pryor protested.
"You have now." Aaron switched off and keyed
command deck, passed his report to the exec, then sat
back with a resigned expression to await the reaction.
Less than a minute later, Commodore Broadly's irate
face snapped into focus on the screen.
"You're the originator of this report?" he growled.
"I did the extrapolation." Aaron stared back at his
commanding officer.
"You're relieved for incompetence," Broadly said in
a tone as harsh as a handsaw.
"Yes, sir," Aaron said. His face was pale, but he re-
turned the commodore's stare. "But my input data and
comps are a matter of record. I'll stand by them."
Broadly's face darkened. "Are you telling me these
spiders can spit in our faces and skip off, scot-free?"
"All I'm saying, sir, is that the present acceleration
ratios will put the target ahead of us by a steadily in-
creasing increment."
Broadly's face twitched. "This vessel is at full emer-
gency gain!" he growled. "No Djann has ever outrun
a fleet unit in a straightaway run."
"This one is . . . sir."
The commodore's eyes bored into Aaron's. "Remain
on duty until further notice," he said, and switched off.
Aaron smiled crookedly and buzzed the message deck.
"He backed down," he said to Pryor. "We've got a
worried commodore on board."
"I don't understand it myself," Pryor said. "How the
hell is that can outgaining us?"
"He's not," Aaron said complacently. "From a stand-
ing start, we'd overhaul him in short order. But he got
the jump on us by a couple of minutes, after he lobbed
the fish into us. If we'd been able to close the gap in the
first half-hour or so, we'd have had him; but at trans-L
velocities, you get some strange effects. One of them is
that our vectors become asymptotic. We're closing on
him—but we'll never overtake him."

144
KEITH LAUMER
Pryor whistled. "Broadly could be busted for this fi-
asco."
"Uh-huh," Aaron grinned. "Could be—unless the
bandit stops for a quick one. . . ."
After Aaron rang off, Pryor turned to study the posi-
tion repeater screen. On it Malthusa was represented by
a bright point at the center, the fleeing Djann craft by a
red dot above.
"Charlie," Pryor called the NCOIC. "That garbled
TX we picked up last watch; where did you R and D
it?"
"Right about here, Lieutenant." The NCO flicked a
switch and turned knobs; a green dot appeared near the
upper edge of the screen.
"Hey," he said. "It looks like maybe our bandit's
headed out his way."
"You picked him up on Y band. Have you tried to
raise him again?"
"Yeah, but nothing doing, Lieutenant. It was just a
fluke—"
"Get a Y beam on him, Charlie. Focus it down to a
cat's whisker and work a pattern over a one-degree ra-
dius centered around his MPP until you get an echo."
"If you say so, sir—but—"
"I do say so, Charlie! Find that transmitter, and the
drinks are on me!"
xxii
Flat against the windswept rockface, Carnaby clung
with his fingertips to a tenuous hold, feeling with one
booted toe for a purchase higher up. A flake of stone
broke away, and for a moment he hung by the fingers of
his right hand, his feet dangling over emptiness; then,
swinging his right leg far out, he hooked a knob with his
knee, caught at a rocky rib with his free hand, pulled
himself up to a more secure rest. He clung, his cheek
against the iron-cold stone; out across the vast expanse
of featureless grayish-tan plain the gleaming whipped-

THUNDERHEAD -
145
cream shape of the next core rose, ten miles to the
south.
A wonderful view up here—of nothing. Funny to
think it could be his last. He was out of condition. It
had been too long since his last climb. . . .
But that wasn't the way to think. He had a job to
do—the first in twenty-one years. For a moment, ghost-
ly recollections rose up before him: the trim Academy
lawns, the spit-and-polish of inspection, the crisp feel of
the new uniform, the glitter of the silver comet as Anne
pinned it on. . . .
That was no good either. What counted was here: the
station up above. One more push, and he'd be there.
He rested for another half-minute, then pulled him-
self up and forward, onto the relatively mild slope of
the final approach to the crest. Fifty yards above, the
dull-gleaming plastron-coated dome of the beacon sta-
tion squatted against the exposed rock, looking no dif-
ferent than it had five years earlier.
Five minutes later he was at the door, flicking the
combination latch dial with cold-numbed fingers.
Tumblers clicked, and the panel slid aside. The heat-
ing system, automatically reacting to his entrance, start-
ed up with a busy hum to bring the interior temperature
up to comfort level. He pulled off his gauntlets, ran his
hands over his face, rasping the stubble there. There
was coffee in the side table, he remembered. Fumbling-
ly, with stiff fingers, he got out the dispenser, twisted the
control cap, poured out a steaming mug, gulped it
down. It was hot and bitter. The grateful warmth of it
made him think of Terry, waiting down below in the
chill of the half-ruined hut.
"No time to waste," he muttered to himself. He
stamped up and down the room, swinging his arms to
warm himself, then seated himself at the console,
flicked keys with a trained ease rendered only slightly
rusty by the years of disuse. He referred to an index,
found the input instructions for Code Gamma Eight, set
up the boards, flipped in the Pulse lever. Under his feet,

146
KEITH LAUMER
he felt the faint vibration as the power pack buried in
the rock stored its output for ten microseconds, fired it
in a single millisecond burst, stored and pulsed again.
Dim instrument lights winked on, indicating normal
readings all across the board.
Carnaby glanced at the wall clock. He had been here
ten minutes now. It would take another quarter hour to
comply with the manual's instructions—but to hell with
that gobbledegook. He'd put the beacon on the air; this
time the Navy would have to settle for that. It would be
pushing it to get back to the boy and pack him down to
the village by nightfall as it was. Poor kid; he'd wanted
to help so badly. . . .
xxiii
"That's correct, sir," Pryor said crisply. "I haven't
picked up any comeback on my pulse, but I'll definitely
identify the echo as coming from a JN-type installa-
tion."
Commodore Broadly nodded curtly. "However, inas-
much as your instruments indicate that this station is
operating solo—not linked in with a net to set up a de-
fensive field—it's of no use to us." The commodore
looked at Pryor coldly.
"I think perhaps there's a way, sir," Pryor said. "The
Djann are known to have strong tribal feelings. They'd
never pass up what they thought was an SOS from one
of their own. Now, suppose we signal this JN station to
switch over to the Djann frequencies and beam one of
their own signal-patterns at them. They just might stop
to take a look. . . ."
"By God!" Broadly looked at the Signal-Lieutenant.
"If he doesn't, he's not human!"
"You like the idea, sir?" Pryor grinned.
"A little rough on the beacon station if they reach it
before we do, eh, Lieutenant? I imagine our friends the
Djann will be a trifle upset when they learn they've been
duped."

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147
"Oh . . ." Pryor looked blank. "I guess I hadn't
thought of that, sir."
"Never mind," Broadly said briskly. "The loss of a
minor installation such as this is a reasonable exchange
for an armed vessel of the enemy."
"Well...."
"Lieutenant, if I had a few more officers aboard who
employed their energies in something other than assem-
bling statistics proving we're beaten, this cruise might
have made a record for itself—" Broadly cut himself
off, remembering the degree of aloofness due every jun-
ior officer—even juniors who may have raked some
very hot chestnuts out of the fire.
"Carry on, Lieutenant," he said. "If this works out, I
think I can promise you a very favorable endorsement
on your next ER."
As Pryor's pleased grin winked off the screen, the
commodore flipped up the red-line key, snapped a
brusque request at the bored log room yeoman.
"TTiis will make Old Carbuncle sing another tune,"
he remarked almost gaily to the Exec, standing by with
a harassed expression.
"Maybe you'd better go slow, Ned," the latter cau-
tioned, gauging his senior's mood. "It might be as well
to get a definite confirmation on this installation's capa-
bilities before we go on record—"
Broadly turned abruptly to the screen as it chimed.
"Admiral, as I reported, I've picked up one of our for-
ward beacon towers," Broadly's hearty voice addressed
the screen from which the grim visage of the task force
commander eyed him. "I'm taking steps to complete the
intercept that are, if I may say so, rather ingenious."
"It's my understanding the target is receding on an I-
curve, Broadly," the admiral said flatly. "I've been an-
ticipating a Code Thirty-three from you."
"Break off action?" Broadly's jaw dropped. "Now,
Tom—"
"It's a little irregular to use a capital ship of the line
to chase a ten-thousand-ton yacht." The task force com-

148
KEITH LAUMER
mander ignored the interruption. "I can understand
your desire to break the monotony with a little activity;
good exercise for the crew, too. But at the rate the sig-
nal is attenuating, it's apparent you've lost her." His
voice hardened. "I'm beginning to wonder if you've for-
gotten that your assignment is the containment of
enemy forces supposedly pinned down under tight quar-
antine!"
"This yacht, as you put it, Admiral, blew two of my
detached units out of space!" Broadly came back hotly.
"In addition, he planted a missile squarely in my fore
lazaret—"
"I'm not concerned with the details of your operation
at this moment, Commodore." The other bit off the
words like bullets. "I'm more interested in maintaining
the degree of surveillance over my assigned quadrant
that Concordiat security requires. Accordingly—"
"Just a minute, Tom, before you commit yourself!"
Broadly's florid face was pale around the ears. "Perhaps
you failed to catch my first remark: I have a forward
station directly in the enemy's line of retreat. The inter-
cept is in the bag—unless you countermand me."
"You're talking nonsense! The target's well beyond
the Inner Line."
"He's not beyond the Outer Line!"
The admiral frowned. His tight well-chiseled face was
still youthful under the mask of authority. "The system
was never extended into the region under discussion,"
he said harshly. "I suggest you recheck your instru-
ments. In the interim, I want to see an advice of a
course-correction for station in the length of time it
takes you to give the necessary orders to your naviga-
tion section."
Broadly drew a breath, hesitated. If Old Carbuncle
was right—if that infernal signal-lieutenant had made
a mistake—but the boy seemed definite enough about
it. He clamped his jaw. He'd risked his career on a wild
throw; maybe he'd acted a little too fast; maybe he'd
been a little too eager to grab a chance at some favor-

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149
able notice; but the die was cast now. If he turned back
empty-handed the entire affair would go into the record
as a major fiasco. But if this scheme worked out....
"Unless the admiral wishes to make that a direct
order," he heard himself saying firmly, "I intend to hold
my course and close with the enemy. It's my feeling that
neither the admiralty nor the general public will enjoy
hearing of casualties inflicted by a supposedly neutral-
ized enemy who was then permitted to go his way un-
hindered." He returned the other's stare, feeling a glow
of pride at his own decisiveness and a simultaneous
sinking sensation at the enormity of the insubordi-
nation.
The vice admiral looked back at him through nar-
rowed eyes. "I'll leave that decision to you, Commo-
dore," he said tightly. "I think you're as aware as I of
what's at stake here."
Broadly stiffened at what was almost an open threat.
"Instruct your signals officer to pass full information on
this supposed station to me immediately," the senior
concluded curtly and then disappeared from view on
the screen.
Broadly turned away, feeling all eyes on him. "Tell
Pryor to copy his report to G at once," he said in a
harsh voice. His eyes strayed to the exec's. "And if this
idea of his doesn't work out, God help him." And all of
us, he added under his breath.
xxiv
As Carnaby reached for the door, to start the long
climb down, a sharp beep! sounded from the panel be-
hind him.
He looked back, puzzled. The bleat repeated, urgent,
commanding. He swung the pack down, went to the
console, flipped down the rec key.
". . . Thirty-seven Ace Trey," an excited voice came
through loud and clear. "I repeat, cut your beacon im-
mediately! JN Thirty-seven Ace Trey, Cincsec One-oh-

150
KEITH LAUMER
four to JN Thirty-seven Ace Trey. Shut down beacon
soonest! This is an Operational Urgent! JN Thirty-
seven Ace Trey, cut beacon and stand by for further
operational urgent instructions	"
xxv
On the fleet command deck aboard the flagship, Vice
Admiral Thomas Carnaby, otherwise known as Old
Carbuncle, studied the sector triagram as his communi-
cations chief pointed out the positions of the flagship
Malthusa, the Djann refugee, and the reported JN bea-
con station.
"I've researched the call letters, sir," the gray-haired
signals major said. "They're not shown on any listing as
an active station. In fact, the entire series of which this
station would be a part is coded null: never reported in
commission."
"So someone appears to be playing pranks, is that
your conclusion, Henry?"
The signals officer pulled at his lower lip. "No, sir,
not that, precisely. I've done a full analytical on the re-
corded signal that young Pryor first intercepted. It's
plainly directed to Cincsec in response to the alert; and
the ID is confirmed. Now, as I say, this series was
dropped from the register. But at one time, such a des-
ignation was assigned en bloc to a proposed link in the
Out Line. However, the planned installations never
came to fruition due to changes in the strategic posi-
tion."
The vice admiral frowned. "What changes were
those?"
"The task force charged with the establishment of the
link encountered heavy enemy pressure. In fact, the
cruiser detailed to carry out the actual placement of the
units was lost in action with all hands. Before the pro-
gram could be reinitiated, a withdrawal from the sector
was ordered. The new link was never completed, and
the series was retired, unused."

THUNDERHEAD -
151
"So?"
"So . . . just possibly, sir, one of those old stations
was erected before Redoubt was lost—"
"What's that?" The admiral rounded on the startled
officer. "Did you say . . . Redoubt?" His voice was a
hiss between set teeth.
"Y—yessir!"
"Redoubt was lost with all hands before she planted
her first station!"
"I know that's what we've always thought, Admi-
ral—"
The admiral snatched the paper from the major's
hand. "JN Thirty-seven Ace-Trey," he read aloud.
"Why the hell didn't you say so sooner?" He whirled to
his chief of staff.
"What's Broadly got in mind?" he snapped the ques-
tion.
The startled officer began a description of the plan to
decoy the Djann vessel into range of Malthusa's bat-
teries.
"Decoy?" the vice admiral snarled. The exec took a
step backward, shocked at the expression on his superi-
or's face. The latter spun to face his battle officer,
standing by on the bridge.
"General, rig out an interceptor and get my pressure
gear into it! I want it on the line, ready for launch in
ten minutes! Assign your best torchman as copilot!"
"Yessir!" The general spoke quickly into a lapel
mike. The admiral flicked a key beside the hot-line
screen.	\
"Get Broadly," he said in a voice like doom im-
pending.
XXVI
In the Djann ship, the One-Who-Commands stirred
and extended a contact to his crew-members. "Tune
keenly in the scarlet regions of the spectrum," he
communicated. "And tell me whether the spinners

152
KEITH LAUMER
weave a new thread in the tapestry of our fates."
"I sensed it but now and felt recognition stir within
me!" the One-Who-Records thrummed a mighty eupho-
ny. "A voice of the Djann, sore beset, telling of mortal
need!"
"I detect a strangeness," the One-Who-Refutes indi-
cated. "This is not the familiar voice of They-Who-
Summon."
"After the passage of ninety cycles, it is not surpris-
ing that new chords have been added to the voice and
others withdrawn," the One-Who-Anticipates pointed
out. "If the link-cousins are in distress, our path is
clear!"
"Shall I then bend our fate-line to meet the new
voice?" the One-Who-Commands called for a weighing.
"The pursuers press us closely."
"The voice calls. Will we pervert our saga by shun-
ning it?"
"This is a snare of the Water-Beings, calculated to
abort our destinies!" the One-Who-Refutes warned.
"Our vital energies are drained to the point of incipient
coma by the weapon-which-feeds-on-life! If we turn
aside now, we place ourselves in the jaws of the
destroyer!"
"Though the voice lies, the symmetry of our exis-
tence demands that we answer its appeal," the One-
Who-Anticipates declared.
"I accede," The One-Who-Records sounded a boom-
ing arpeggio, combining triumph and defeat. "Let the
Djann flame burn brightest in its hour of extinction!"
XXVII
"By God, they've fallen for it!" Commodore Broadly
smacked his fist into his hand and beamed at the young
signal-lieutenant. He rocked back on his heels, study-
ing the position chart the plot officer had set up for him
on the message deck. "We'll make the intercept about

THUNDERHEAD -
153
here." His finger stabbed at a point a fractional light
from the calculated position of the newfound OL sta-
tion.
He broke off as an excited voice burst from the inter-
com screen.
"Commodore Broadly, sir! Urgent from task—" The
yeoman's face disappeared from the screen to be re-
placed by the fierce visage of the vice admiral.
"Broadly, sheer off and take up course for station
and then report yourself under arrest! Commodore
Baskov will take command: I've countermanded your
damnfool orders to the OL station! I'm on my way out
there now to see what I can salvage—and when I get
back, I'm preferring charges against you that will put
you on the beach for the rest of your miserable life!"
XXVIII
In the beacon station atop the height of ground known
as Thunderhead, Carnaby waited before the silent
screen. The modification to the circuitry had taken half
an hour; setting up the new code sequences, another fif-
teen minutes. Then another half-hour had passed while
the converted beacon beamed out the alien signal.
He'd waited long enough. It had been twenty minutes
now since the last curt order to stand by; and in the hut
a thousand feet below, Terry had been waiting now for
nearly five hours, every breath he drew a torture of
strangulation. The order had been to put the signal on
the air, attempt to delay the enemy ship. Either it had
worked, or it hadn't. If Fleet had any more instructions
for him, they'd have to damn well deliver them in per-
son. He'd done what was required. Now he had to see
to the boy.
Carnaby rose, again donned the backpack, opened
the door. As he did so, a faint deep-toned rumble of
distant thunder rolled. He stepped outside, squinted up
at the sky, a dazzle of mist-gray. Maybe the snow squall

154
KEITH LAUMER
was headed back this way. That would be bad luck: it
would be close enough as it was.
A bright point of light caught his eye, winking from
high above, almost at zenith.
Carnaby felt his heart take a leap in his chest that al-
most choked off his breath. For a moment he stood,
staring up at it; then he whirled back through the door.
"... termand previous instructions!" A new voice
was rasping from the speaker. "Terminate all transmis-
sions immediately! JN Thirty-seven, shut down power
and vacate station! Repeat, an armed enemy vessel is
believed to be vectored in on your signal! This is, re-
peat, a hostile vessel! You are to cease transmission
and abandon station immediately—"
Carnaby's hand slapped the big master lever. Lights
died on the panel. Underfoot, the minute vibration
jelled into immobility. Sudden silence pressed in like a
tangible force—a silence broken by a rising mutter
from above.
"Like that, eh?" Carnaby said to himself through
clenched teeth. "Abandon station, eh?" He took three
steps to a wall locker, yanked the door wide, took out a
short, massive power rifle, still encased in its plastic pro-
tective cover. He stripped the oily sheath away, checked
the charge indicator; it rested on full.
There were foot-square windows set on each side of
the twenty-foot room. Carnaby went to one. By putting
his face flat against the armorplast panel he was able to
see the ship, now a flaring fireball dropping in along a
wide approach curve. As it descended swiftly the dark
body of the vessel took shape above the glare of the
drive. It was a small blunt-ended ovoid of unfamiliar
design, a metallic black in color, decorated fore and aft
with the scarlet blazons of a Djann war vessel.
The ship was close now, maneuvering to a position a
thousand feet directly overhead. Now a small landing
craft detached itself from the parked ship and plummet-
ed downward like a stone with a shrill whistling of high-
speed rotors, to settle in across the expanse of broken

THUNDERHEAD -
155
rock in a cloud of pale dust. The black plastic bubble
atop the landing sled split like a clamshell.
A shape came into view, clambered over the cockpit
rim and stood, a cylindrical bronze-black body slung by
leather mesenteries from the paired U frames that were
its ambulatory members, two pairs of grasping limbs
folded above.
A second Djann emerged, a third, a fourth. They
stood together, immobile, silent, while a minute ticked
past. Sweat trickled down the side of Carnaby's face.
He breathed shallowly, rapidly, feeling the almost pain-
ful thudding of his heart.
One of the Djann moved suddenly, its strange, joint-
less limbs moving with twinkling grace and speed. It
flowed across to a point from which it could look down
across the plain, then angled to the left and recon-
noitered the entire circumference of the mountaintop.
Carnaby moved from window to window to watch it. It
rejoined the other three; briefly, they seemed to confer.
Then one of the creatures, whether the same one or an-
other Carnaby wasn't sure, started across toward the hut.
Carnaby moved back into a position in the lee of a
switch-gear cabinet. A moment later the Djann ap-
peared at the door. At a distance of fifteen feet Carnaby
saw the lean limbs, like leather-covered metal; the
heavy body; the immense faceted eyes that caught the
light and sent back fiery glints. For thirty seconds the
creature scanned the interior of the structure. Then it
withdrew.
Carnaby let out a long shaky breath, watched the
alien lope back to rejoin its companions. Again, the
Djann conferred; then one turned to the landing craft.
For a long moment Carnaby hesitated. He could stay
where he was, do nothing, and the Djann would reboard
their vessel and go their way; and in a few hours a fleet
unit would heave into view off Longone, and he'd be
home safe.
But the orders had been to delay the enemy... .
He centered the sights of the power gun on the alien's

156
KEITH LAUMER
body, just behind the fore-legs, and pushed the firing
stud.
A shaft of purple fire blew the window from its
frame, lanced out to smash the uprearing alien against
the side of the sled, sent it skidding in a splatter of mol-
ten rock and metal. Carnaby swung the rifle, fired at a
second Djann as the group scattered; the stricken crea-
ture went down, rolled, came up, stumbling on three
limbs. He fired again, knocked the creature spinning,
dark fluid spattering from a gaping wound in the barrel-
like body. Carnaby swung to cover a third Djann,
streaking for the plateau's edge; his shot sent a shower
of molten slag arcing high from the spot where it disap-
peared.
He lowered the gun, stepped outside, ran to the cor-
ner of the building. The fourth Djann was crouched
in the open, thirty feet away; Carnaby saw the glitter of
a weapon gripped in the handlike members springing
from its back. He brought the gun up, fired in the same
instant that light etched the rocks, and a hammer-blow
struck him crushingly in the side, knocked him back
against the wall. He tasted dust in his mouth, was aware
of a high, humming sound that seemed to blank out his
hearing, his vision, his thoughts. . . .
He came to, lying on his side against the wall. Forty
feet away the Djann sprawled, its stiff limbs outthrust at
awkward angles. Carnaby looked down at his side.
The Djann particle-gun had torn a gaping rent in his
suit, through which he could see bright crimson beads
of frozen blood. He groped, found the rifle, dragged it
to him. He shook his head to clear away the mist that
seemed to obscure his vision. At every move, a terrible
sharp pain stabbed outward from his chest. Ribs bro-
ken, he thought. Something smashed inside, too. It was
hard for him to breathe. The cold stone on which he lay
seemed to suck the heat from his body.
Across the hundred-foot stretch of frost-shattered
rock, a soot-black scar marked the spot where the
escaping Djann had gone over the edge. Painfully, Car-

THUNDERHEAD -
157
naby propped the weapon to cover the direction from
which attack might come. Then he slumped, his face
against the icy rock, watching down the length of the
rifle barrel for the next move from the enemy.
XXIX
"Another four hours to shift, Admiral," said General
Drew, the battle commander acting as copilot aboard
the racing interceptor. "That's if we don't blow our lin-
ings before then."
"Bandit still holding position?" The admiral's voice
was a grate as of metal against metal.
Drew spoke into his lip mike, frowned at the reply.
"Yes, sir, Malthusa says he's still stationary. Whether
his focus is identical with the LN beacon's fix or not, he
isn't sure at that range."
"He could be standing by off-planet, looking over the
ground," the admiral muttered half to himself.
"Not likely, Admiral. He knows we're on his tail."
"I know it's not likely, damn it!" the admiral
snarled. "But if he isn't, we haven't got a chance."
"I suppose the Djann conception of honor requires
these beggars to demolish the beacon and hunt down
the station personnel, even if it means letting us over-
haul them," Drew said. "A piece of damn foolishness
on their part, but fortunate for us."
"For us, General? I take it you mean yourself and
me, not the poor devil that's down there alone with
them!"
"Just the one man? Well, we'll get off more cheaply
than I imagined." The general glanced sideways at the
admiral, intent over the controls. "After all, he's Navy.
This is his job, what he signed on for."
"Kick the converter again, General," Admiral Carna-
by said between his teeth. "Right now you can earn
your pay by squeezing another quarter light out of this
bucket."

158
KEITH LAUMER
XXX
Crouched in a shallow crevice below the rim of the
mesa where the house of the Water-Beings stood, the
One-Who-Records quivered under the appalling impact
of the death-emanations of his link-brothers.
"Now it lies with you alone," the fading thought
came from the One-Who-Commands. "But the Water-
Being, too, is alone, and in this . . . there is ... a certain
euphony.. . ." The last fragile tendril of communication
faded.
The One-Who-Records expelled a gust of the plan-
et's noxious atmosphere from his ventral orifice-array,
with an effort freed his intellect of the shattering extinc-
tion-resonances it had absorbed. Cautiously, he probed
outward, sensing the strange fiery mind-glow of the
alien. ...
Ah, he too was injured! The One-Who-Records
shifted his weight from his scalded forelimb, constricted
further the flow of vital fluids through the damaged sec-
tion of his epidermal system. He was weakened by the
searing blast that had scored his flank, but still capable
of action; and up above the wounded Water-Being
waited.
Deftly, the Djann extracted the hand-weapon from
the sheath strapped to his side, holding it in a two-hand-
ed grip, its broad base resting on his dorsal ridge, its
ring-lenses aligned along his body. He wished briefly
that he had spent more li periods in the gestalt-tanks,
impressing the weapon's use-syndromes on his reflex sys-
tem; but reckless regrets made poor scansion. Now in-
deed the display-podium of existence narrowed down to
a single confrontation: a brief and final act in a century-
old drama, with the fate of the mighty epic of Djann
resting thereon. The One-Who-Records sounded a sin-
gle trumpetlike resonance of exultation and moved for-
ward to fulfill his destiny.

THUNDERHEAD -
159
XXXI
At the faint bleat of sound, Carnaby raised his head.
How long had he lain here, waiting for the alien to
make its move? Maybe an hour, maybe longer. He had
passed out at least twice, possibly for no more than a
second or two; but it could have been longer. The
Djann might even have gotten past him—or crawled
along below the ridge, ready now to jump him from a
new angle. . . .
He thought of Terry Sickle, waiting for him, counting
on him. Poor kid; time was running out for him. The
sun was dropping low, and the shadows would be clos-
ing in. It would be icy cold inside the hut; and down
there in the dark the boy was slowly strangling, maybe
calling for him. . . .
He couldn't wait any longer. To hell with the alien.
He'd held him long enough. Painfully, using the wall as
a support, Carnaby got to his hands and knees. His side
felt as though it had been opened and packed with red-
hot stones—or were they ice-cold? His hands and feet
were numb. His face ached. Frostbite. He'd look fine
with a frozen ear. Funny how vanity survived as long as
life itself. . . .
He got to his feet, leaned against the building,
worked on breathing. The sky swam past him, fading
and brightening. His feet felt like blocks of wood; that
wasn't good. He had a long way to go. But the activity
would warm him, get the blood flowing, except where
the hot stones were. He would be lighter if he could
leave them here. His hands moved at his side, groping
over torn polyon, the sharp ends of broken wires. ...
He brought his mind back to clarity with an effort.
Wouldn't do to start wandering now. The gun caught
his eye, lying at his feet. Better pick it up; but to hell
with it, too much trouble. Navy property. Can't leave it
here for the enemy to find. Enemy. Funny dream about
a walking oxy tank, and—

160
KEITH LAUMER
He was looking at the dead Djann, lying, awkward,
impossible, thirty feet away. No dream. The damn
things were real. He was here, alone, on top of Thun-
derhead—
But he couldn't be. Flitter was broken down. Have to
get another message off via the next tramp steamer that
made planetfall. Hadn't been one for . . . how long?
Something moved, a hundred feet away, among the
tumble of broken rock.
Carnaby ducked, came up with the blast rifle, fired in
a half-crouch from the hip, saw a big dark shape scram-
ble up and over the edge, saw the wink of yellow light,
fired again, cursing the weakness that made the gun
buck and yaw in his hands, the darkness that closed
over his vision. With hands that were stiff, clumsy, he
fired a third time at the swift-darting shape that charged
toward him; and then he was falling, falling. ...
xxxii
Stunned by the direct hit from the energy weapon of
the Water-Being, the One-Who-Records fought his way
upward through a universe shot through with whirling
shapes of fire, to emerge on a plateau of mortal agony.
He tried to move, was shocked into paralysis by the
cacophony of conflicting motor and sense impressions
from shattered limbs and organs.
Then I, too, die, the thought came to him with utter
finality. And with me dies the once-mighty song of
Djann.
Failing, his mind groped outward, calling in vain for
the familiar touch of his link-brothers—and abruptly, a
sharp sensation impinged on his sensitivity-complex.
Concepts of strange and alien shape drifted into his
mind, beating at him with compelling urgency from a
foreign brain:
Youth, aspirations, the ringing bugle of the call-to-
arms. A white palace rearing up into yellow sunlight;
a bright banner, rippling against blue sky, and the shad-

THUNDERHEAD -
161
ows of great trees ranked on green lawns. The taste of
grapes, and an odor of flowers; night, and the moon re-
flected from still water; the touch of a soft hand and the
face of a woman, invested with a supernal beauty;
chords of a remote music that spoke of the inexpress-
ibly desirable, the irretrievably lost. . . .
"Have we warred then, Water-Beings?" the One-
Who-Records sent his thought outward. "We who
might have been brothers?" With a mighty effort,
he summoned his waning strength, sounded a final chord
in tribute to that which had been, and was no more.
xxxiii
Carnaby opened his eyes and looked at the dead Djann
lying in the crumpled posture of its final agony, not
six feet from him. For a moment, a curious sensation
of loss plucked at his mind.
"Sorry, fellow," he muttered aloud. "I guess you
were doing what you had to do, too."
He stood, felt the ground sway under his feet. His
head was light, hot; a sharp, clear humming sounded in
his ears. He took a step, caught himself as his knees
tried to buckle.
"Damn it, no time to fall out now," he grunted. He
moved past the alien body, paused by the door to the
shed. A waft of warm air caressed his cold-numbed
face.
"Could go inside," he muttered. "Wait there. Ship
along in a few hours, maybe. Pick me up. . . ." He
shook his head angrily. "Job's not done yet," he said
clearly, addressing the white gleam of the ten-mile dis-
tant peak known as Creamtop. "Just a little longer,
Terry," he added. "I'm coming."
Painfully, Carnaby made his way to the edge of the
plateau, pulled himself up and over and started down.

162
KEITH LAUMER
xxxiv
"We'd better shift to sub-L now, Admiral," Drew
said, strain showing in his voice. "We're cutting it fine
as it is."
"Every extra minute at full gain saves a couple of
hours," the vice admiral came back.
"That won't help us if we kick out inside the Delta
limit and blow ourselves into free ions," the general said
coolly.
"You've made your point, General!" The admiral
kept his eyes fixed on his instruments. Half a minute
ticked past. Then he nodded curtly.
"All right, kick us out," he snapped, "and we'll see
where we stand."
The hundred-ton interceptor shuddered as the dis-
torters whined down the scale, allowing the stressed
space field that had enclosed the vessel to collapse. A
star swam suddenly into the visible spectrum, blazing at
planetary distance off the starboard bow at three-
o'clock high.
"Our target's the second body, there." The copilot
punched the course into the panel.
"What would you say—another hour?" The admiral
bit off the words.
"Make it two," the other replied shortly. He glanced
up, caught the admiral's eye on him.
"Kidding ourselves won't change anything," he said
steadily.
Admiral Carnaby narrowed his eyes, opened his
mouth to speak, then clamped his jaw Shut.
"I guess I've been a little snappy with you, George,"
he said. "I'll ask your pardon. That's my brother down
there."
"Your . . . ?" the general's features tightened. "I
guess I said some stupid things myself, Tom." He
frowned at the instruments, busied himself adjusting
course for an MIT approach to the planet.

THUNDERHEAD -
163
xxxv
Carnaby half jumped, half fell the last few yards to the
narrow ledge called Halliday's Roost, landed awkward-
ly in a churn of powdered wind-driven snow. For a mo-
ment he lay sprawled, then gathered himself, made it to
his feet, tottered to the hollow concealing the drifted en-
trance to the hut. He lowered himself, crawled down
into the dark clammy interior.
"Terry," he called hoarsely. A wheezing breath an-
swered him. He felt his way to the boy's side, groped
over him. He lay on his side, his legs curled against his
chest.
"Terry!" Carnaby pulled the lad to a sitting position,
he felt him stir feebly. "Terry, I'm back! We have to go
now, Terry. . . ."
"I knew"—the boy stopped to draw an agonizing
breath—"you'd come. . . ." He groped, found Carna-
by's hand.
Carnaby fought the dizziness that threatened to close
in on him.
He was cold—colder than he had ever been. The
climbing hadn't warmed him. The side wasn't bothering
him much now; he could hardly feel it. But he couldn't
feel his hands and feet, either. They were like stumps,
good for nothing. . . . Clumsily, he backed through the
entry, bodily hauling Terry along with him.
Outside, the wind lashed at him like frozen whips.
Carnaby raised Terry to his feet. The boy leaned
against him, slid down, crumpled to the ground.
"Terry, you've got to try," Carnaby gasped out. His
breath seemed to freeze in his throat. "No time to waste
... got to get you to . . . Doc Lin. . . ."
"Lieutenant. . . I . . . can't. . . ."
"Terry ... you've got to try!" He lifted the boy to his
feet.
"I'm . . . scared . . . Lieutenant. . . ." Terry stood
swaying, his slight body quivering, his knees loose.

164
KEITH LAUMER
"Don't worry, Terry." Carnaby guided the boy to the
point from which they would start the climb down.
"Not far now."
"Lieutenant. . . ." Sickle caught at Carnaby's arm,
clung. "You . . . better . . . leave . . . me."
His breath sighed in his throat.
"I'll go first." Carnaby heard his own voice as from a
great distance. "Take ... it easy. I'll be right there . . .
to help	"
He forced a breath of sub-zero air into his lungs. The
bitter wind moaned around the shattered rock. The
dusky afternoon sun shed a reddish light but no heat on
the long slope below.
"It's late." He mouthed the words with stiff lips. "It's
late	"
xxxvx
Two hundred thousand feet above the surface of the
outpost world Longone, the fleet interceptor split the
stratosphere, its receptors fine-tuned to the Djann
energy-cell emission spectrum.
"Three hundred million square miles of desert," Ad-
miral Carnaby said. "Except for a couple of deserted
townsites, not a sign that life ever existed here."
"We'll find it, Tom," Drew said. "If they'd lifted,
Malthusa would have known—hold it!" He looked up
quickly. "I'm getting something—yes! It's the typical
Djann idler output!"
"How far from us?"
"Quite a distance	Now it's fading...."
The admiral put the ship into a screaming deceler-
ation curve that crushed both men brutally against the
restraint of their shock-frames.
"Find that signal, George," the vice admiral grated.
"Find it and steer me to it, if you have to pick it out of
the air with psi!"
"I've got it!" Drew barked. "Steer right, on Oh-three-
oh. I'd range it at about two thousand kilometers. .. ."

THUNDERHEAD -
165
xxxvii
On the bald face on an outcropping of wind-scored
stone Carnaby clung one-handed to a scanty hold, sup-
porting Terry with the other arm. The wind shrieked,
buffeting at him; sand-fine snow whirled into his face,
slashing at his eyes, already half-blinded by the glare.
The boy slumped against him, barely conscious.
His mind seemed as sluggish now as his half-frozen
limbs. Somewhere below there was a ledge, with shelter
from the wind. How far? Ten feet? Fifty?
It didn't matter. He had to reach it. He couldn't hold
on here in this wind; in another minute he'd be done
for.
Carnaby pulled Terry closer, got a better grip with a
hand that seemed no more a part of him than the rock
against which they clung. He shifted his purchase with
his right foot—and felt it slip. He was falling, grabbing
frantically with one hand at the rock, then dropping
through open air—
The impact against drifted snow drove the air from
his lungs. Darkness shot through with red fire threat-
ened to close in on him; he fought to draw a breath,
struggling in the claustrophobia of suffocation. With a
desperate lunge, he caught a ridge of hard ice, pulled
himself back from the brink, then groped, found Terry,
lying on his back under the vertically rising wall of rock.
The boy stirred.
"So . . . tired . . ." he whispered. His body arced as
he struggled to draw breath.
Carnaby pulled himself to a position beside the boy,
propped himself with his back against the rock. Dimly,
through ice-rimmed eyes, he could see the evening lights
of the settlement, far below; so far. . . .
He put his arm around the thin body, settled the lad's
head gently in his lap, leaned over him to shelter him
from the whirling snow. "It's all right, Terry," he said.
"You can rest now."

166
KEITH LAUMER
xxxviii
Supported on three narrow pencils of beamed force,
the fleet interceptor slowly circuited the Djann yacht,
hovering on its idling null-G generators a thousand feet
above the towering white mountain.
"Nothing alive there," the co-pilot said. "Not a whis-
per on the life-detection scale."
"TaJke her down." Vice Admiral Carnaby squinted
through S-R lenses which had darkened almost to
opacity in response to the frost-white glare from below.
"The shack looks all right, but that doesn't look like a
Mark Seven flitter parked beside it."
The heavy fleet boat descended swiftly under the ex-
pert guidance of the battle officer. At fifty feet, he
leveled off, orbited the station.
"I count four dead Djann," the admiral said in a brit-
tle voice.
"Tracks," the general pointed. "Leading off there...."
"Put her down, George!" The hundred-foot boat set-
tled in with a crunching of rock and ice, its shark's prow
overhanging the edge of the tiny plateau. The hatch cy-
cled open; the two men emerged.
At the spot where Carnaby had lain in wait for the
last of the aliens, they paused, staring silently at the
glossy patch of dark blood, and at the dead Djann be-
side it. Then they followed the irregularly spaced foot-
prints across to the edge.
"He was still on his feet—but that's about all," the
battle officer said.
"George, can you operate that Spider boat?" The ad-
miral indicated the Djann landing sled.
"Certainly."
"Let's go."

THUNDERHEAD -
167
xxxix
It was twilght half an hour later when the admiral,
peering through the obscuring haze, saw the snow-drift-
ed shapes huddled in the shadow of an overhang. Fifty
feet lower, the general settled the sled into a precarious
landing on a narrow shelf. It was a terr-minute climb
back to their objective.
Vice Admiral Carnaby pulled himself up the last
yard, looked across the icy ledge at the figure in the
faded-blue polyon cold suit. He saw the weathered and
lined face, glazed with ice; the closed eyes, the gnarled
and bloody hands, the great wound in the side.
The general came up beside him, stared silently, then
went forward.
"I'm sorry, Admiral," he said a moment later. "He's
dead. Frozen. Both of them."
The admiral came up, went to Carnaby's side.
"I'm sorry, Jimmy," he said. "Sorry."
"I don't understand," the general said. "He could
have stayed up above, in the station. He'd have been all
right there. What in the world was he doing down
here?"
"What he always did," Admiral Carnaby said. "His
duty."

END AS A HERO
I
In the dream I was swimming in a river of white fire
and the dream went on and on. And then I was awake
—and the fire was still there, fiercely burning at me.
I tried to move to get away from the flames, and then
the real pain hit me. I tried to go back to sleep and the
relative comfort of the river of fire, but it was no go.
For better or worse, I was alive and conscious.
I opened my eyes and took a look around. I was on
the floor next to an unpadded acceleration couch—the
kind the Terrestrial Space Arm installs in seldom-used
lifeboats. There were three more couches, but no one in
them. I tried to sit up. It wasn't easy, but by applying a
lot more will-power than should be required of a sick
man, I made it. I took a look at my left arm. Baked.
The hand was only medium rare, but the forearm was
black, with deep red showing at the bottom of the
cracks where the crisped upper layers had burst....
There was a first-aid cabinet across the compartment
from me. I tried my right leg, felt broken bone-ends
grate with a sensation that transcended pain. I heaved
with the other leg, scrabbled with the charred arm. The
crawl to the cabinet dwarfed Hillary's trek up Everest,
but I reached it after a couple of years, and found the
microswitch on the floor that activated the thing, and
then I was fading out again. . . .

END AS A HERO
169
I came out of it, clear-headed but weak. My right leg
was numb, but reasonably comfortable, clamped tight
in a walking brace. I put up a hand and felt a shaved
skull, with sutures. It must have been a fracture. The
left arm—well, it was still there, wrapped to the
shoulder and held out stiffly by a power truss that
would keep the scar tissue from pulling up and crippling
me. The steady pressure as the truss contracted wasn't
anything to do a sense-tape on for replaying at leisure
moments, but at least the cabinet hadn't amputated. I
wasn't complaining.
As far as I knew, I was the first recorded survivor of
contact with the Gool—if I survived.
I was still a long way from home, and I hadn't yet
checked on the condition of the lifeboat. I glanced to-
ward the entry port. It was dogged shut. I could see
black marks where my burned hand had been at work.
I fumbled my way into a couch and tried to think. In
my condition—with a broken leg and third-degree
burns, plus a fractured skull—I shouldn't have been
able to fall out of bed, much less make the trip from
Belshazzar's CCC to the boat; and how had I managed
to dog that port shut? In an emergency a man is capable
of great exertions. But running on a broken femur, han-
dling heavy levers with charred fingers, and thinking
with a cracked head are overdoing it. Still, I was here—
and it was time to get a call through to TSA head-
quarters.
I flipped the switch and gave the emergency call-
letters Colonel Ausar Kayle of Aerospace Intelligence
had assigned to me a few weeks before. It was almost
five minutes before the "acknowledge" came through
from the Ganymede relay station, another ten minutes
before Kayle's face swam into view. Even through the
blur of the screen I could see the haggard look.
"Granthan!" he burst out. "Where are the others?
What happened out there?" I turned him down to a
mutter.
"Hold on," I said. "I'll tell you. Recorders going?" I

170
KEITH LAUMER
didn't wait for an answer—not with a fifteen-minute
transmission lag. I plowed on:
"Belshazzar was sabotaged. So was Gilgamesh—I
think. I got out. I lost a little skin, but the aid cabinet
has the case in hand. Tell the Med people the drinks are
on me."
I finished talking and flopped back, waiting for
Kayle's reply. On the screen, his flickering image gazed
back impatiently, looking as hostile as a swing-shift
ward nurse. It would be half an hour before I would get
his reaction to my report. I dozed off—and awoke with
a start. Kayle was talking.
"—your report. I won't mince words. They're won-
dering at your role in the disaster. How does it happen
that you alone survived?"
"How the hell do I know?" I yelled—or croaked. But
Kayle's voice was droning on:
". . . you psychodynamics people have been telling
me the Gool may have some kind of long-range telehyp-
notic ability that might make it possible for them to
subvert a loyal man without his knowledge. You've told
me yourself that you blacked out during the attack—
and came to on the lifeboat, with no recollection of how
you got there.
"This is war, Granthan. War against a vicious enemy
who strikes without warning and without mercy. You
were sent out to investigate the possibility of—what's
that term you use?—hypercortical invasion. You know
better than most the risk I'd be running if you were al-
lowed to pass the patrol line.
"I'm sorry, Granthan. I can't let you land on Earth. I
can't accept the risk."
"What do I do now?" I stormed. "Go into orbit and
eat pills and hope you think of something? I need a doc-
tor!"
Presently Kayle replied. "Yes," he said. "You'll have
to enter a parking orbit. Perhaps there will be develop-
ments soon which will make it possible to . . . ah . . .
restudy the situation." He didn't meet my eye. I knew

END AS A HERO	171
what he was thinking. He'd spare me the mental
anguish of knowing what was coming. I couldn't really
blame him; he was doing what he thought was the right
thing. And I'd have to go along and pretend—right up
until the warheads struck—that I didn't know I'd been
condemned to death.
II
I tried to gather my wits and think my way through
the situation. I was alone and injured, aboard a lifeboat
that would be the focus of a converging flight of missiles
as soon as I approached within battery range of Earth. I
had gotten clear of the Gool, but I wouldn't survive my
next meeting with my own kind. They couldn't take the
chance that I was acting under Gool orders.
I wasn't, of course. I was still the same Peter Gran-
than, psychodynamicist, who had started out with
Dayan's fleet six weeks earlier. The thoughts I was hav-
ing weren't brilliant, but they were mine, all mine....
But how could I be sure of that?
Maybe there was something in Kayle's suspicion. If
the Gool were as skillful as we thought, they would
have left no overt indications of their tampering—not at
a conscious level.
But this was where psychodynamics training came in.
I had been reacting like any scared casualty, aching to
get home and lick his wounds. But I wasn't just any ca-
sualty. I had been trained in the subtleties of the mind—
and I had been prepared for just such an attack.
Now was the time to make use of that training. It had
given me one resource. I could unlock the memories of
my subconscious—and see again what had happened.
I lay back, cleared my mind of extraneous thoughts,
and concentrated on the trigger word that would key an
autohypnotic sequence. . . .
Sense impressions faded. I was alone in the nebulous
emptiness of a first-level trance. I keyed a second word,
slipped below the misty surface into a dream world of

172
KEITH LAUMER
vague phantasmagoric figures milling in their limbo of
subconceptualization. I penetrated deeper, broke
through into the vividly hallucinatory third level, where
images of mirror-bright immediacy clamored for atten-
tion. And deeper. . . .
The immense orderly confusion of the basic memory
level lay before me. Abstracted from it, aloof and ob-
servant, the monitoring personality-fraction scanned the
pattern, searching the multidimensional continuum for
evidence of an alien intrusion.
And found it.
As the eye instantaneously detects a flicker of motion
amid an infinity of static detail, so my inner eye per-
ceived the subtle traces of the probing Gool mind, like a
whispered touch deftly rearranging my buried motiva-
tions.
I focused selectively, tuned to the recorded gestalt.
"It is a contact, Effulgent One!"
"Softly, now! Nurture the spark well. It but trembles
at the threshold...."
"It is elusive, Master! It wriggles like a gorm-worm
in the eating trough!"
A part of my mind watched as the memory unreeled.
I listened to the voices—yet not voices, merely the
shape of concepts, indescribably intricate. I saw how
the decoy pseudo-personality which I had concretized
for the purpose in a hundred training sessions had
fought against the intruding stimuli—then yielded under
the relentless thrust of the alien probe. I watched as the
Gool operator took over the motor centers, caused me
to crawl through the choking smoke of the devastated
control compartment toward the escape hatch. Fire
leaped up, blocking the way. I went on, felt ghostly
flames whipping at me—and then the hatch was open
and I pulled myself through, forcing the broken leg. My
blackened hand fumbled at the locking wheel. Then the
blast as the lifeboat leaped clear of the disintegrating
dreadnought—and the world-ending impact as I fell.

END AS A HERO
173
At a level far below the conscious, the embattled
pseudopersonality lashed out again—fighting the in-
vader.
"Almost it eluded me then, Effulgent Lord. Link with
this lowly one!"
"Impossible! Do you forget all my teachings? Cling,
though you expend the last filament of your life-
force!"
Free from all distraction, at a level fohere compre-
hension and retention are instantaneous and total, my
monitoring basic personality fraction followed the skill-
ful Gool mind as it engraved its commands deep in my
subconscious. Then the touch withdrew, erasing the
scars of its passage, to leave me unaware of its tam-
pering—at a conscious level.
Watching the Gool mind, I learned.
The insinuating probe—a concept about which psy-
chodynamicists had theorized—was no more than a
pattern in emptiness. . . .
But a pattern which I could duplicate, now that I had
seen what had been done to me.
Hesitantly, I felt for the immaterial fabric of the con-
tinuum, warping and manipulating it, copying the Gool
probe. Like planes of paper-thin crystal, the polyfinite
aspects of reality shifted into focus, aligning themselves.
Abruptly, a channel lay open. As easily as I would
stretch out my hand to pluck a moth from a night flow-
er, I reached across the unimaginable void—and sensed
a pit blacker than the bottom floor of Hell, and a glis-
tening dark shape.
There was a soundless shriek. "Effulgence! It reached
out—touched me!"
Using the technique I had grasped from the Gool it-
self, I struck, stifling the outcry, invaded the fetid black-
ness and grappled the obscene gelatinous immensity of
the Gool spy as it spasmed in a frenzy of xenophobia—
a ton of liver writhing at the bottom of a dark well.
I clamped down control. The Gool mind folded in on

174
KEITH LAUMER
itself, gibbering. Not pausing to rest, I followed up,
probed along my channel of contact, tracing patterns,
scanning the flaccid Gool mind. . . .
I saw a world of yellow seas lapping at endless shores
of mud. There was a fuming pit, where liquid sulphur
bubbled up from some inner source, filling an immense
natural basin. The Gool clustered at its rim, feeding,
each monstrous shape heaving against its neighbors for
a more favorable position.
I probed farther, saw the great cables of living ner-
vous tissue that linked each eating organ with the brain-
mass far underground. I traced the passages through
which tendrils ran out to immense caverns where small-
er creatures labored over strange devices. These, my
host's memory told me, were the young of the Gool.
Here they built the fleets that would transport the
spawn to the new worlds the Prime Overlord had dis-
covered, worlds where food was free for the taking. Not
sulphur alone, but potassium, calcium, iron and all the
metals—riches beyond belief in endless profusion. No
longer would the Gool tribe cluster—those who re-
mained of a once-great race—at a single feeding
trough. They would spread out across a galaxy—and
beyond.
But not if I could help it.
The Gool had evolved a plan—but they'd had a
stroke of bad luck.
In the past they had managed to control a man here
and there, among the fleets, far from home, but only at
a superficial level. Enough, perhaps, to wreck a ship,
but not the complete control needed to send a man back
to Earth under Gool compulsion, to carry out complex
sabotage.
Then they had found me, alone, a sole survivor, free
from the clutter of the other mindfields. It had been
their misfortune to pick a psychodynamicist. Instead of
gaining a patient slave, they had opened the fortress
door to an unseen spy. Now that I was there I would see
what I could steal.

END AS A HERO
175
A timeless time passed. I wandered among patterns
of white light and white sound, plumbed the deepest re-
cesses of hidden Gool thoughts, fared along strange
ways examining the shapes and colors of the concepts
of an alien mind.
I paused at last, scanning a multiordinal structure of
pattern within pattern: the diagrammed circuits of a
strange machine.
I followed through its logic-sequence; and, like a
bomb-burst, its meaning exploded in my mind.
From the vile nest deep under the dark surface of the
Gool world in its lonely trans-Plutonian orbit, I had
plucked the ultimate secret of their kind.
Matter across space.
"You've got to listen to me, Kayle," I shouted. "I
know you think I'm a Gool robot. But what I have is
too big to let you blow it up without a fight. Matter
transmission! You know what that can mean to us. The
concept is too complex to try to describe in words.
You'll have to take my word for it. I can build it,
though, using standard components, plus an infinite-
area antenna and a moebius-wound coil—and a few
other things. . . ."
I harangued Kayle for a while, and then sweated out
his answer. I was getting close now. If he couldn't see
the beauty of my proposal, my screens would start to
register the radiation of warheads any time now.
Kayle came back—and his answer boiled down to
"No."
I tried to reason with him. I reminded him how I had
readied myself for the trip with sessions on the encepha-
loscope, setting up the cross-networks of conditioned
defensive responses, the shunt circuits to the decoy
pseudo-personality, leaving my volitional ego free. I
talked about subliminal hypnotics and the resilience
quotient of the ego complex.
I might have saved my breath.
"I don't understand that psychodynamics jargon,

176
KEITH LAUMER
Granthan," he snapped. "It smacks of mysticism. But I
understand what the Gool have done to you well
enough. I'm sorry."
I leaned back and chewed the inside of my lip and
thought unkind thoughts about Colonel Ausar Kayle.
Then I settled down to solve the problem at hand.
I keyed the chart file, flashed pages from the standard
index on the reference screen, checking radar cover-
ages, beacon ranges, monitor stations, controller fields.
It looked as though a radar-negative boat the size of
mine might possibly get through the defensive net with a
daring pilot, and as a condemned spy, I could afford to
be daring.
And I had a few ideas.
iii
The shrilling of the proximity alarm blasted through
the silence. For a wild moment I thought Kayle had
beaten me to the punch; then I realized it was the rou-
tine DEW Line patrol contact.
"Z Four-oh-two, I am reading your IFF. Decelerate
at one-point-eight gee preparatory to picking up ap-
proach orbit...."
The screen went on droning out instructions. I fed
them into the autopilot, at the same time running over
my approach plan. The scout was moving in closer. I
licked dry lips. It was time to try.
I closed my eyes, reached out—as the Gool mind had
reached out to me—and felt the touch of a Signals Offi-
cer's mind, forty thousand miles distant, aboard the pa-
trol vessel. There was a brief flurry of struggle; then I
dictated my instructions. The Signals Officer punched
keys, spoke into his microphone:
"As you were, Z Four-oh-two. Continue on present
course. At oh-nineteen seconds, pick up planetary for
reentry and letdown."
I blanked out the man's recollection of what had hap-
pened, caught his belated puzzlement as I broke con-

END AS A HERO
177
tact. But I was clear of the DEW Line now, rapidly ap-
proaching atmosphere.
"Z Four-oh-two," the speaker crackled. "This is
planetary control. I am picking you up on channel
forty-three, for reentry and letdown."
There was a long pause. Then: "Z Four-oh-two,
countermand DEW Line clearance! Repeat, clearance
countermanded! Emergency course change to standard
hyperbolic code ninety-eight. Do not attempt reentry.
Repeat: do not attempt reentry!"
It hadn't taken Kayle long to see that I'd gotten past
the outer line of defense. A few more minutes' grace
would have helped. I'd play it dumb, and hope for a lit-
tle luck.
"Planetary, Z Four-oh-two here. Say, I'm afraid I
missed part of that, fellows. I'm a little banged up—I
guess I switched frequencies on you. What was that
after 'pick up channel forty-three'.. . ?"
"Four-oh-two, steer off there! You're not cleared for
reentry!"
"Hey, you birds are mixed up," I protested. "I'm
cleared all the way. I checked in with DEW—"
It was time to disappear. I blanked off all transmis-
sion, hit the controls, following my evasive pattern. And
again I reached out—
A radarman at a site in the Pacific, fifteen thousand
miles away, rose from his chair, crossed the darkened
room and threw a switch. The radar screens blanked
off. . . .
For an hour I rode the long orbit down, fending off
attack after attack. Then I was clear, skimming the sur-
face of the ocean a few miles southeast of Key West.
The boat hit hard. I felt the floor rise up, over, buffeting
me against the restraining harness.
I hauled at the release lever, felt a long moment of
giddy disorientation as the escape capsule separated
from the sinking lifeboat deep under the surface. Then
my escape capsule was bobbing on the water.

178
KEITH LAUMER
I would have to risk calling Kayle now—but by vol-
untarily giving my position away, I should convince him
I was still on our side—and I was badly in need of a
pickup. I flipped the sending key.
"This is Z Four-oh-two," I said. "I have an urgent re-
port for Colonel Kayle of Aerospace Intelligence."
Kayle's face appeared. "Don't fight it, Granthan," he
croaked. "You penetrated the planetary defenses—God
knows how. I—"
"Later," I snapped. "How about calling off your dogs
now? And send somebody out here to pick me up, be-
fore I add seasickness to my other complaints."
"We have you pinpointed," Kayle cut in. "It's no use
fighting it, Granthan."
I felt cold sweat pop out on my forehead. "You've
got to listen, Kayle," I shouted. "I suppose you've got
missiles on the way already. Call them back! I have in-
formation that can win the war—"
"I'm sorry, Granthan," Kayle said. "It's too late—
even if I could take the chance you were right."
A different face appeared on the screen.
"Mr. Granthan, I am General Titus. On behalf of
your country, and in the name of the President—who
has been apprised of this tragic situation—it is my priv-
ilege to inform you that you will be awarded the Con-
gressional Medal of Honor—posthumously—for your
heroic effort. Although you failed, and have in fact been
forced, against your will, to carry out the schemes of the
inhuman enemy, this in no way detracts from your gal-
lant attempt. Mr. Granthan, I salute you."
The general's arm went up in a rigid gesture.
"Stow that, you pompous idiot!" I barked. "I'm no
spy!"
Kayle was back, blanking out the startled face of the
general.
"Goodbye, Granthan. Try to understand...."
I flipped the switch, sat gripping the couch, my stom-

END AS A HERO
179
ach rising with each heave of the floating escape cap-
sule. I had perhaps five minutes. The missiles would be
from Kennedy.
I closed my eyes, forced myself to relax, reached
out...."
I sensed the distant shore, the hot buzz of human
minds at work in the cities. I followed the coastline,
found the missile base, flicked through the cluster of
minds.
"—missile on course; do right, baby. That's it, right
in the slot."
I fingered my way through the man's mind and found
the control centers. He turned stiffly from the plotting
board, tottered to a panel to slam his hand against the
destruct button.
Men fell on him, dragged him back. "—fool, why did
you blow it?"
I dropped the contact, found another, who leaped to
the panel, detonated the remainder of the flight of six
missiles. Then I withdrew. I would have a few minutes'
stay of execution now.
I was ten miles from shore. The capsule had its own
power plant. I started it up, switched on the external
viewer. I saw dark sea, the glint of starlight on the
choppy surface, in the distance a glow on the horizon
that would be Key West. I plugged the course into the
pilot, then leaned back and felt outward with my mind
for the next attacker.
IV
It was dark in the trainyard. I moved along the tracks
in a stumbling walk. Just a few more minutes, I was tell-
ing myself. A few more minutes and you can lie down
... rest...
The shadowed bulk of a boxcar loomed up, its open
door a blacker square. I leaned against the sill, breath-
ing hard, then reached inside for a grip with my good
hand.

180
KEITH LAUMER
Gravel scrunched nearby. The beam of a flashlight
lanced out, slipped along the weathered car, caught me.
There was a startled exclamation. I ducked back, closed
my eyes, felt out for his mind. There was a confused
murmur of thought, a random intrusion of impressions
from the city all around. It was hard, too hard. I had to
sleep—-
I heard the snick of a revolver being cocked, and
dropped flat as a gout of flame stabbed toward me, the
imperative Bam! echoing between the cars. I caught the
clear thought: "Godawful looking, shaved head, arm
stuck out; him all right—"
I reached out to his mind and struck at random. The
light fell, went out, and I heard the unconscious body
slam to the ground like a poled steer.
It was easy—if I could only stay awake.
I gritted my teeth, pulled myself into the car, crawled
to a dark corner behind a crate and slumped down. I
tried to evoke a personality fraction to set as a guard, a
part of my mind to stay awake and warn me of danger.
It was too much trouble. I relaxed and let it all slide
down into darkness.
The car swayed, click-clack, click-clack. I opened my
eyes, saw yellow sunlight in a bar across the litter on the
floor. The power truss creaked, pulling at my arm. My
broken leg was throbbing its indignation at the treat-
ment it had received—walking brace and all—and the
burned arm was yelling aloud for more of that nice
dope that had been keeping it from realizing how bad it
was. All things considered, I felt like a badly embalmed
mummy—except that I was hungry. I had been a fool
not to fill my pockets when I left the escape capsule in
the shallows off Key West, but things had been hap-
pening too fast.
I had barely made it to the fishing boat, whose owner
I had coerced into rendezvousing with me before shells
started dropping around us. If the gunners on the cruis-
er ten miles away had had any luck, they would have

END AS A HERO
181
finished me—and the hapless fisherman—right then.
We rode out a couple of near misses, before I put the
cruiser's gunnery crew off the air.
At a fishing camp on the beach, I found a car—with
driver. He dropped me at the railyard, and drove off
under the impression he was in town for groceries. He'd
never believe he'd seen me.
Now I'd had my sleep. I had to start getting ready for
the next act of the farce.
I pressed the release on the power truss, gingerly un-
damped it, then rigged a sling from a strip of shirt tail. I
tied the arm to my side as inconspicuously as possible. I
didn't disturb the bandages.
I needed new clothes—or at least different ones—
and something to cover my shaved skull. I couldn't stay
hidden forever. The yard cop had recognized me at a
glance.
I lay back, waiting for the train to slow for a town. I
wasn't unduly worried—at the moment. The watchman
probably hadn't convinced anyone he'd actually seen
me. Maybe he hadn't been too sure himself.
The click-clack slowed and the train shuddered to a
stop. I crept to the door, peered through the crack.
There were sunny fields, a few low buildings in the dis-
tance, the corner of a platform. I closed my eyes and let
my awareness stretch out.
"—lousy job. What's the use? Little bitch in the
lunchroom ... up in the hills, squirrel-hunting, bottle
of whiskey... ."
I settled into control gently, trying not to alarm the
man. I saw through his eyes the dusty boxcar, the rust
on the tracks, the listless weeds growing among cinders,
and the weathered boards of the platform. I turned him,
and saw the dingy glass of the telegraph window, a sag-
ging screen door with a chipped enamel cola sign.
I walked the man to the door, and through it. Behind
a linoleum-topped counter, a coarse-skinned teen-age
girl with heavy breasts and wet patches under her arms
looked up without interest as the door banged.

182
KEITH LAUMER
My host went on to the counter, gestured toward the
waxed-paper-wrapped sandwiches under a glass cover.
"I'll take 'em all. And candy bars, and cigarettes. And
give me a big glass of water."
"Better git out there and look after yer train," the girl
said carelessly. "When'd you git so all-fired hungry all
of a sudden?"
"Put it in a bag. Quick."
"Look who's getting bossy—"
My host rounded the counter, picked up a used paper
bag, began stuffing food in it. The girl stared at him,
then pushed him back. "You git back around that
counter!"
She filled the bag, took a pencil from behind her ear.
"That'll be one eighty-five. Cash."
My host took two dog-eared bills from his shirt pock-
et, dropped them on the counter and waited while the
girl filled a glass. He picked it up and started out.
"Hey! Where you goin' with my glass?"
The trainman crossed the platform, headed for the
boxcar. He slid the loose door back a few inches against
the slack latch, pushed the bag inside, placed the glass
of water beside it, then pulled off his grimy railroader's
cap and pushed it through the opening. He turned. The
girl watched from the platform. A rattle passed down
the line and the train started up with a lurch. The man
walked back toward the girl. I heard him say, "Friend
o' mine in there—just passin' through."
I was discovering that it wasn't necessary to hold
tight control over every move of a subject. Once given
the impulse to act, he would rationalize his behavior, fill
in the details—and never know that the original idea
hadn't been his own.
I drank the water first, ate a sandwich, then lit a ciga-
rette and lay back. So far so good. The crates in the car
were marked "u.s. naval aerospace station, bayou
le cochon." With any luck I'd reach New Orleans in
another twelve hours. The first step of my plan included

END AS A HERO
183
a raid on the Delta National Labs; but that was tomor-
row. That could wait.
It was a little before dawn when I crawled out of the
car at a siding in the swampy country a few miles out of
New Orleans. I wasn't feeling good, but I had a stake in
staying on my feet. I still had a few miles in me. I had
my supplies—a few candy bars and some cigarettes—
stuffed in the pockets of the tattered issue coverall.
Otherwise, I was unencumbered. Unless you wanted to
count the walking brace on my right leg and the sling
binding my arm.
I picked my way across mushy ground to a potholed
blacktop road, started limping toward a few car lights
visible half a mile away. It was already hot. The swamp
air was like warmed-over subway fumes. Through the
drugs I could feel my pulse throbbing in my various
wounds. I reached out and touched the driver's mind;
he was thinking about shrimps, a fishhook wound on his
left thumb; and a girl with black hair. "Want a lift?" he
called.
I thanked him and got in. He gave me a glance and I
pinched off his budding twinge of curiosity. It was al-
most an effort now not to follow his thoughts. It was as
though my mind, having learned the trick of communi-
cations with others, instinctively reached out toward
them.
An hour later he dropped me on a street corner in a
shabby, marketing district of the city and drove off. I
hoped he made out all right with the dark-haired girl. I
spotted a used-clothing store and headed for it.
Twenty minutes later I was back on the sidewalk,
dressed in a pinkish-gray suit that had been cut a long
time ago by a Latin tailor—maybe to settle a grudge.
The shirt that went with it was an unsuccessful violet.
The black string tie lent a dubious air of distinction. I'd
swapped the railroader's cap for a tarnished beret. The
man who had supplied the outfit was still asleep. I fig-

184
KEITH LAUMER
ured I'd done him a favor by taking it. I couldn't hope
to pass for a fisherman—I wasn't the type. Maybe I'd
get by as a coffee-house derelict.
I walked past fly-covered fish stalls, racks of faded
garments, grimy vegetables in bins, enough paint-flaked
wrought iron to cage a herd of brontosauri, and
fetched up at a cab stand. I picked a fat driver with a
wart.
"How much to the Delta National Laboratories?"
He rolled an eye toward me, shifted his toothpick.
"What ya wanna go out there for? Nothing out
there."
"I'm a tourist," I said. "They told me before I left
home not to miss it."
He grunted, reached back and opened the door. I got
in. He flipped his flag down, started up with a clash of
gears and pulled out without looking.
"How far is it?" I asked him.
"It ain't far. Mile, mile and a quarter."
"Pretty big place, I guess."
He didn't answer.
We went through a warehousing district, swung left
along the waterfront, bumped over railroad tracks, and
pulled up at a nine-foot cyclone fence with a locked
gate.
"A buck ten," my driver said.
I looked out at the fence, a barren field, a distant
group of low buildings. "What's this?"
"This is the place you ast for. That'll be a buck ten,
mister."
I touched his mind, planted a couple of false impres-
sions and withdrew. He blinked, then started up, drove
around the field, pulled up at an open gate with a blue-
uniformed guard. He looked back at me.
"You want I should drive in, sir?"
"I'll get out here."
He jumped out, opened my door, helped me out with
a hand under my good elbow. "I'll get your change,
sir," he said, reaching for his hip.

END AS A HERO
185
"Keep it."
"Thank you." He hesitated. "Maybe I oughta stick
around. You know."
"I'll be all right."
"I hope so," he said. "A man like you—you and
me—" he winked. "After all, we ain't both wearing
berets fer nothing."
"True," I said. "Consider your tip doubled. Now
drive away into the sunrise and forget you ever saw me."
He got into the car, beaming, and left. I turned and
sized up the Delta Labs.
There was nothing fancy about the place; it consisted
of low brick and steel buildings, mud, a fence, and a
guard who was looking at me.
I sauntered over. "I'm from Iowa City," I said.
"Now, the rest of the group didn't come—said they'd
rather rest one day. But I like to see it all. After all, I
paid—"
"Just a minute," the guard said, holding up a palm.
"You must be lost, fella. This here ain't no tourist at-
traction. You can't come in here."
"This is the cameo works?" I said anxiously.
He shook his head. "Too bad you let your cab go.
It's an hour yet till the bus comes."
A dun-painted staff car came into view, slowed and
swung wide to turn in. I fingered the driver's mind. The
car swerved, braked to a halt. A portly man in the back
seat leaned forward, frowning. I touched him. He re-
laxed. The driver leaned across and opened the door. I
went around and got in. The guard was watching, open-
mouthed.
I gave him a two-finger salute, and the car pulled
through the gate.
"Stop in front of the electronics section," I said. The
car pulled up. I got out, went up the steps and pushed
through the double glass doors. The car sat for a mo-
ment, then moved slowly off. The passenger would be

186
KEITH LAUMER
wondering why the driver had stopped—but the driver
wouldn't remember.
I was inside the building now; that was a start. I
didn't like robbery in broad daylight, but it was a lot
easier this way. I wasn't equal to climbing any walls or
breaking down any locked doors—not until I'd had a
transfusion, a skin graft, and about three months' va-
cation on a warm beach somewhere.
A man in a white smock emerged from a door. He
started past me, spun—
"I'm here about the garbage," I said. "Damn fools
will put the cans in with the edible. Are you the one
called?"
"How's that?"
"I ain't got all the morning!" I shrilled. "You scien-
tist fellers are all alike. Which way is the watchamacallit
—equipment lab?"
"Right along there." He pointed. I didn't bother to
thank him. It wouldn't have been in character.
A thin man with a brush mustache eyed me sharply as
I pushed through the door. I looked at him, nodding ab-
sently. "Carry on with your work," I said. "The audit
will be carried out in such a way as to disturb you as lit-
tle as possible. Just show me your voucher file, if you
please."
He sighed and waved toward a filing cabinet. I went
to it and pulled a drawer open, glancing about the
room. Full shelves were visible through an inner door.
Twenty minutes later I left the building, carrying a
sheet-metal carton containing the electronic compo-
nents I needed to build a matter transmitter—except for
the parts I'd have to fabricate myself from raw materi-
als. The load was heavy—too heavy for me to carry
very far. I parked it at the door and waited until a pick-
up truck came along.
It pulled over. The driver climbed out and came up
the walk to me. "Are you—uh . . . ?" He scratched his
head.
"Right." I waved at my loot. "Put it in the back." He

END AS A HERO
187
obliged. Together we rolled toward the gate. The guard
held up his hand, came forward to check the truck. He
looked surprised when he saw me.
"Just who are you, fella?" he said.
I didn't like tampering with people any more than I
had to. It was a lot like stealing from a blind man: easy,
but nothing to feel proud of. I gave him a light touch—
just the suggestion thrjt what I would say would be full
of deep meaning. /
"You know—the tegular Wednesday shipment," I
said darkly. "Keep it quiet. We're all relying on you."
"Sure thing," he said, stepping back. We gunned
through the gate. I glanced back to see him looking
after the truck, thinking about the Wednesday shipment
on a Friday. He decided it was logical, nodded his head,
and forgot the whole thing.
v
I'd been riding high for a couple of hours, enjoying the
success of the tricks I'd stolen from the Gool. Now I
suddenly felt like something the student morticians had
been practicing on. I guided my driver through a
second-rate residential section, looking for an M.D.
shingle on a front lawn.
The one I found didn't inspire much confidence—
you could hardly see it for the weeds—but I didn't want
to make a big splash. I had to have an assist from my
driver to make it to the front door. He got me inside,
parked my box beside me and went off to finish his
rounds, under the impression that it had been a dull
morning.
The doctor was a seedy, seventyish G.P. with a gross
tremor of the hands that a good belt of Scotch would
have helped. He looked at me as though I'd interrupted
something that was either more fun or paid better than
anything I was likely to come up with.
"I need my dressing changed, Doc," I said. "And
maybe a shot to keep me going."

188
KEITH LAUMER
"I'm not a dope peddler," he snapped. "You've got
the wrong place."
"Just a little medication—whatever's usual. It's a
burn."
"Who told you to come here?"
I looked at him meaningfully. "The word gets
around."
He glared at me, gnashed his plates, then gestured to-
ward a black-varnished door. "Go right in there."
He gaped at my arm when the bandages were off. I
took a quick glance and wished I hadn't.
"How did you do this?"
"Smoking in bed," I said. "Have you got . . . some-
thing that. . . ."
He caught me before I hit the floor, got me into a
chair. Then he had that Scotch he'd been wanting, gave
me a shot as an afterthought, and looked at me nar-
rowly.
"I suppose you fell out of that same bed and broke
your leg," he said.
"Right. Hell of a dangerous bed."
"I'll be right back." He turned to the door. "Don't go
away. I'll just ... get some gauze."
"Better stay here, Doc. There's plenty of gauze right
on that table."
"See here—"
"Skip it, Doc. I know all about you."
"What?"
"I said all about you."
He set to work then; a guilty conscience is a tough
argument to answer.
He plastered my arm with something and rewrapped
it, then looked the leg over and made a couple of ad-
justments to the brace. He clucked over the stitches in
my scalp, dabbed something on them that hurt like hell,
then shoved an old-fashioned stickpin needle into my
good arm.
"That's all I can do for you," he said. He handed me

END AS A HERO
189
a bottle of pills. "Here are some tablets to take in an
emergency. Now get out."
"Call me a cab, Doc."
I listened while he called, then lit a cigarette and
watched through the curtains. The doc stood by, worry-
ing his upper plate and eyeing me. So far I hadn't had to
tinker with his mind, bui it would be a good idea to
check. I felt my way delicately.
"—oh God, why did 1 . . . long time ago . . . Mary
ever knew ... go to /'frizona, start again, too old. ..." I
saw the nest of fearsihat gnawed at him, the frustration
and the faint flicker of hope not quite dead. I touched
his mind, wiped away scars. . . .
"Here's your car," he said. He opened the door,
looking at me. I started past him.
"Are you sure you're all right?" he said.
"Sure, Pop. And don't worry. Everything's going to
be okay."
The driver put my boxes on the back seat. I got in
beside him and told him to take me to a men's clothing
store. He waited while I changed my hand-me-downs
for an off-the-hook suit, new shirt and underwear, and a
replacement beret. It was the only kind of hat that
didn't hurt. My issue shoes were still good, but I traded
them in on a new pair, added a light raincoat, and threw
in a sturdy suitcase for good measure. The clerk said
something about money and I dropped an idea into his
mind, paused long enough to add a memory of a fabu-
lous night with a redhead. He hardly noticed me leav-
ing.
I tried not to feel like a shoplifter. After all, it's not
every day a man gets a chance to swap drygoods for
dreams.
In the cab I transferred my belongings to the new
suitcase, then told the driver to pull up at an anony-
mous-looking hotel. A four-star admiral with frayed
cuffs helped me inside with my luggage. The hackie

190
KEITH LAUMER
headed for the bay to get rid of the box under the im-
pression I was a heavy tipper.
I had a meal in my room, a hot bath, and treated my-
self to a three-hour nap. I woke up feeling as though
those student embalmers might graduate after all.
I thumbed through the phone book and dialed a
number.
"I want a Cadillac or Lincoln," I said. "A new one—
not the one you rent for funerals—and a driver who
won't mind missing a couple nights' sleep. And put a
bed pillow and a blanket in the car."
I went down to the coffee room then for a light meal.
I had just finished a cigarette when the car arrived—a
dark-blue heavyweight with a high polish and a low sil-
houette.
"We're going to Denver," I told the driver. "We'll
make one stop tomorrow—I have a little shopping to
do. I figure about twenty hours. Take a break every
hundred miles, and hold it under seventy."
He nodded. I got in the back and sank down in the
smell of expensive upholstery.
"I'll cross town and pick up U.S. Eighty-four at—"
"I leave the details to you," I said. He pulled out into
the traffic and I got the pillow settled under me and
closed my eyes. I'd need all the rest I could get on this
trip. I'd heard that compared with the Denver Records
Center, Fort Knox was a cinch. I'd find out for sure
when I got there.
The plan I had in mind wasn't the best I could have
concocted under more leisurely circumstances. But with
every cop in the country under orders to shoot me on
sight, I had to move fast. My scheme had the virtue of
unlikeliness. Once I was safe in the Central Vault—sup-
posed to be the only H-bomb-proof structure ever built
—I'd put through a phone call to the outside, telling
them to watch a certain spot; say the big desk in the
President's office. Then I'd assemble my matter trans-
mitter and drop some little item right in front of the as-

END AS A HERO
191
sembled big shots. They'd have to admit I had some-
thing. And this time they'd have to start considering the
possibility that I wasn't working for the enemy.
It had been a smooth trip, and I'd caught up on my
sleep. Now it was five a.m. and we were into the foot-
hills, half an hour out of Denver. I ran over my lines,
planning the trickiest part of the job ahead—the initial
approach. I'd listened to a couple of news broadcasts.
The FBI was still promising an arrest within hours.
I learned that I was lying up, or maybe dead, in the vi-
cinity of Key West, and that the situation was under
control. That was fine with me. Nobody would expect
me to pop up in Denver, still operating under my own
power—and wearing a new suit at that.
The Records Renter was north of the city, dug into a
mountainside. I 'steered my chauffeur around the down-
town section, out a street lined with dark hamburger
joints and unlit gas stations to where a side road
branched off. We pulled up. From here on things might
get dangerous—if I was wrong about how easy it was
all going to be. I brushed across the driver's mind. He
set the brake and got out.
"Don't know how I came to run out of gas, Mr.
Brown," he said apologetically. "We just passed a sta-
tion but it was closed. I guess I'll just have to hike back
into town. I sure am sorry; I never did that before."
I told him it was okay, watched as he strode off into
the predawn gloom, then got into the front seat and
started up. The gate of the Reservation surrounding the
Record Center was only a mile away now. I drove slow-
ly, feeling ahead for opposition. There didn't seem to be
any. Things were quiet as a poker player with a pat
hand. My timing was good.
I stopped in front of the gate, under a floodlight and
the watchful eye of an M.P. with a shiny black tommy-
gun held at the ready; He didn't seem surprised to see
me. I rolled down the window as he came over to the car.
"I have an appointment inside, Corporal," I said. I

192
KEITH LAUMER
touched his mind. "The password is 'Hotpoint.'"
He nodded, stepped back, and motioned me in. I hes-
itated. This was almost too easy. I reached out again ...
". . . middle of the night . . . password . . . nice car
...I wish...."
I pulled through the gate and headed for the big
parking lot, picking a spot in front of a ramp that led
down to a tall steel door. There was no one in sight. I
got out, dragging my suitcase. It was heavier now, with
the wire and magnets I'd added. I crossed the drive,
went up to the doors. The silence was eerie.
I swept the area, searching for minds, found nothing.
The shielding, I decided, blanked out everything.
There was a personnel door set in the big panel, with
a massive combination lock. I leaned my head against
the door and felt for the mechanism, turning the dial
right, left, right. . . .
The lock opened. I stepped inside, alert.
Silence, darkness. I reached out, sensed walls, slabs
of steel, concrete, intricate mechanisms, tunnels deep in
the ground. . . .
But no personnel. That was surprising—but I
wouldn't waste time questioning my good luck. I fol-
lowed a corridor, opened another door, massive as a
vault, passed more halls, more doors. My footsteps
made muffled echoes. I passed a final door and came
into the heart of the Records Center.
There were lights in the chamber around the grim
featureless periphery of the Central Vault. I set the va-
lise on the floor, sat on it, and lit a: cigarette. So far, so
good. The Records Center, I saw, had been overrated.
Even without my special knowledge a clever locksmith
could have come this far—or almost. But the Big Vault
was another matter. The great integrating lock that se-
cured it would yield only to a complex command from
the computer set in the wall opposite the vault door. I
smoked my cigarette and, with eyes closed, studied the
vault.

END AS A HERO
193
I finished the cigarette, stepped on it, went to the
console, began pressing keys, tapping out the necessary
formulations. Half an hour later I finished. There was a
whine from a servo motor; a crimson light flashed. I
turned and saw the valve cycle open, showing a bright-
lit tunnel within.
I dragged my bag inside, threw the lever that closed
the entry behind me. A green light went on. I walked
along the narrow passage, lined with gray metal shelves
stacked with gray steel tape drums, descended steps,
came into a larger chamber fitted out with bunks, a tiny
galley, toilet facilities, shelves stocked with food. There
was a radio, a telephone and a second telephone, bright
red. That would be the hotlin" to Washington. This was
the sanctum sanctorum, where the last survivors could
wait out the final holocaust—indefinitely.
I opened the door of a steel cabinet. Radiation suits,
tools, instruments. Another held bedding. I found a
tape-player^ {apes—even a shelf of books. I found a
first-aid kit awl gratefully gave myself a hypospray jolt
of neurite. My pains receded.
I went on to the next room; there were washtubs, a
garbage-disposal unit, a dryer. There was everything
here I needed to keep me alive and even comfortable
until I could convince someone up above that I
shouldn't be shot on sight.
A heavy door barred the way to the room beyond. I
turned a wheel, swung the door back, saw more walls
lined with filing cabinets, a blank facade of gray steel;
and in the center of the room, alone on a squat table—a
yellow plastic case that any Sunday Supplement reader
would have recognized.
It was a Master Tape, the Utter Top Secret Program-
ming document that would direct the terrestrial defense
in case of a Gool invasion.
It was almost shocking to see it lying there—unpro-
tected except for the flimsy case. The information it

194
KEITH LAUMER
contained in micro microdot form could put my world
in the palm of the enemy's hand.
The room with the tool kit would be the best place to
work, I decided. I brought the suitcase containing the
electronic gear back from the outer door where I'd left
it, opened it and arranged its contents on the table. Ac-
cording to the Gool these simple components were all I
needed. The trick was in knowing how to put them to-
gether.
There was work ahead of me now. There were the
coils to wind, the intricate antenna arrays to lay out; but
before I started, I'd take time to call Kayle—or whoev-
er I could get at the other end of the hotline. They'd be
a little startled when I turned up at the heart of the de-
fenses they were trying to shield.
I picked up the receiver and a voice spoke:
"Well, Granthan. So you finally made it."
VI
"Here are your instructions," Kayle was saying.
"Open the vault door. Come out—stripped—and go to
the center of the parking lot. Stand there with your
hands over your head. A single helicopter manned' by a
volunteer will approach and drop a gas canister. It
won't be lethal, I promise you that. Once you're uncon-
scious, I'll personally see to it that you're transported to
the Institute in safety. Every effort will then be made to
overcome the Gool conditioning. If we're successful,
you'll be awakened. If not. . . ."
He let the sentence hang. It didn't need to be fin-
ished. I understood what he meant.
I was listening. I was still not too worried. Here I was
safe against anything until the food ran out—and that
wouldn't be for months.
"You're bluffing, Kayle," I said. "You're trying to
put the best face on something that you can't control. If
you'd—"

END AS A HERO
195
"You were careless at Delta Labs, Granthan. There
were too many people with odd blanks in their memo-
ries and too many unusual occurrences, all on the same
day. You tipped your hand. Once we knew what we
were up against, it was simply a matter of following you
at an adequate distance. We have certain shielding ma-
terials, as you know. We tried them all. There's a new
one that's quite effective.
"But as I was saying, we've kept you under constant
surveillance. When we saw which way you were head-
ing, we just stayed out of sight and let you trap your-
"You're lying. Why would you want me here?"
"That's very simple," Kayle said harshly. "It's the
finest trap ever built by man—and you're safely in it."
"Safely is right. I have everything I need here. And
that brings me to mv reason for being here—in case
you're curious. I'm gomg to build a matter transmitter.
And to prove my good faith, I'll transmit the Master
Tape to you. I'll show you that I could have stolen the
damn?xd thing if I'd wanted to."
"Indeed? Tell me, Granthan, do you really think
we'd be fools enough to leave the Master Tape behind
when we evacuated the area?"
"I don't know about that—but it's here."
"Sorry," Kayle said. "You're deluding yourself." His
voice was suddenly softer, some of the triumph gone
from it. "Don't bother struggling, Granthan. The finest
brains in the country have combined to place you where
you are. You haven't a chance, except to do as I say.
Make it easy on yourself. I have no wish to extend your
ordeal."
"You can't touch me, Kayle. This vault is proof
against a hellbomb, and it's stocked for a siege...."
"That's right," Kayle said. His voice sounded tired.
"It's proof against a hellbomb. But what if the hell-
bomb's in the vault with you?"
self."
I felt like a demolitions man, working to defuse a

196
KEITH LAUMER
blockbuster, who's suddenly heard a loud click! from
the detonator. I dropped the phone, stared around the
room. I saw nothing that could be a bomb. I ran to the
next room, the one beyond. Nothing. I went back to the
phone, grabbed it up.
"You ought to know better than to bluff now,
Kayle!" I yelled. "I wouldn't leave this spot now for
half a dozen hypothetical hellbombs!"
"In the center room," Kayle said. "Lift the cover
over the floor drain. You'll find it there. You know what
they look like. Don't tamper with its mechanism; it's in-
ternally trapped. You'll have to take my word for it that
we didn't bother installing a dummy."
I dropped the phone, hurried to the spot Kayle had
described. The bomb casing was there—a dull gray
ovoid, with a lifting eye set in the top. It didn't look
dangerous. It just lay quietly, waiting....
Back at the telephone, I had trouble finding my
voice. "How long?" I croaked.
"It was triggered when you entered the vault," Kayle
said. "There's a time mechanism. It's irreversible; you
can't force anyone to cancel it. And it's no use your hid-
ing in the outer passages.
"The whole center will be destroyed in the blast.
Even it can't stand against a bomb buried in its heart.
But we'll gladly sacrifice the center to eliminate you."
"How long?"
"I suggest you come out quickly, so that a crew can
enter the vault to disarm the bomb."
"How long?!"
"When you're ready to emerge, call me." The line
went dead.
I put the phone back in its cradle carefully, like a
rare and valuable egg.
I tried to think. I'd been charging full speed ahead
ever since I had decided on my scheme of action while I
was still riding the surf off die Florida coast, and I'd
stuck to it. Now it had hatched in my face—and the
thing that had crawled out wasn't the downy little chick

END AS A HERO
197
of success. It had teeth and claws and was eyeing me
like a basilisk. . . .
But I still had unplayed aces—if there was time.
I had meant to use the matter transmitter to stage a
dramatic proof that I wasn't the tool of the enemy. The
demonstration would be more dramatic than I'd
planned. The bomb would fit the machine as easily as
the tape. The wheels would be surprised when their
firecracker went off—right on schedule—in the middle
of the Mojave Desert.
I set to work, my heart pounding. If I could bring this
off—if I had time—if the transmitter worked as adver-
tised. . . .
The stolen knowledge flowed smoothly, effortlessly.
It was as though I had been assembling matter transmit-
ters for years, knew every step by heart. First the moe-
bius windings; yard after yard of heavy copper around a
core of carbon; then the power supply, the first- and
second-stage amplimitters....
How long? In the sump in the next room, the bomb
lay quietly ticking. How long . . . ?
The main assembly was ready now. I laid out cables,
tying *ny apparatus in to the atomic power source
buried \nder the vault. The demand, for one short in-
stant, would tax even those mighty engines. I fixed
hooks at the proper points in the room, wove soft alu-
minum wire in the correct pattern. I was almost finished
now. How long? I made the last connections, cleared
away the litter. The matter transmitter stood on the
table, complete. At any instant, the bomb would reduce
it—and the secret of its construction—to incandescent
gas—unless I transmitted the bomb out of range first. I
turned toward the laundry room—and the telephone
rang.
I hesitated, then crossed the room and snatched it up.
"Listen to me," Kayle said grimly. "Give me straight
fast answers. You said the Master Tape was there, in

198
KEITH LAUMER
the vault with you. Now tell me: What does it look
like?"
"What?"
"The . . . ah . . . dummy tape. What is its appear-
ance?"
"It's a roughly square plastic container, bright yellow,
about a foot thick. What about it?"
Kayle's voice sounded strained. "I've made inquiries.
No one here seems to know the exact present location
of the Master Tape. Each department says that they
were under the impression that another handled the
matter. I'm unable to learn who, precisely, removed the
Tape from the vault. Now you say there is a yellow
plastic container—"
"I know what the Master Tape looks like," I said.
"This is either it or a hell of a good copy."
"Granthan," Kayle said. There was a note of desper-
ation in his voice now. "There have been some blunders
made. I knew you were under the influence of the Gool.
It didn't occur to me that I might be too. Why did I
make it possible for you to successfully penetrate to the
Central Vault? There were a hundred simpler ways in
which I could have dealt with the problem. We're in
trouble, Granthan, serious trouble. The tape you have
there is genuine. We've all played into the enemy's
hands."
"You're wasting valuable time, Kayle," I snapped.
"When does the bomb go up?"
"Granthan, there's little time left. Bring the Master
Tape and leave the vault—"
"No dioe, Kayle. I'm staying until I fini'a the trans-
mitter, then—"
"Granthan! If there's anything to your mad idea of
such a machine, destroy it! Quickly! Don't you see the
Gool would only have given you the secret in order to
enable you to steal the tape!"
I cut him off. In the sudden silence, I heard a distant
sound—or had I sensed a thought? I strained out-
ward. ...

END AS A HERO
199
". . . volunteered . . . damn fool . . . thing on my
head is heavy . . . better work . . .
". . . now . . . okay . . . valve, gas . . . kills in a split
second. . . then get out. .. ."
I stabbed out, pushed through the obscuring veil of
masonry, sensed a man in the computer room, dressed
in gray coveralls, a grotesque shield over his head and
shoulders. He reached for a red-painted valve—
I struck at his mind, felt him stagger back, fall. I fum-
bled in his brain, stimulated the sleep center. He sank
deep into unconsciousness. I leaned against the table,
weak with the reaction. Kayle had almost tricked me
that time.
I reached out again, swept the area with desperate ur-
gency. Far away, I sensed the hazy clutter of many
minds, out of range. There was nothing more. The poi-
sonous gas had been the only threat—except the bomb
itself. But I had to move fast, before my time ran out, to
transmit the bomb to a desert area. . . .
I paused, stood frozen in mid-move. A desert. What
desert?
The transmitter operated in accordance with as rigid
a set of laws as did the planets swinging in their orbits:
strange laws, but laws of nature nonetheless. No receiv-
er was required. The destination of the mass under
transmission was determined by the operator, holding in
his mind the five-dimensional conceptualization of the
target, guiding the action of the machine.
And I had no target.
I could no more direct the bomb to a desert without a
fivefold grasp of its multiordinal spatial, temporal, and
entropic coordinates than I could fire a rifle at a target
in the dark.
I was like a man with a grenade in his hand, pin
pulled—and locked in a cell.
I swept the exocosm again, desperately. And caught a
thin, live line. I traced it; it cut through the mountain,
dived deep underground, crossed the boundless plain	

200
KEITH LAUMER
Never branching, it bored on, turning upward now—
and ending.
I rested, gathering strength, then probed, straining	
There was a room, men. I recognized Kayle, gray-
faced, haggard. A tall man in braided blue stood near
him. Others stood silently by, tension on every face.
Maps covered the wall behind them.
I was looking into the War Room at the Pentagon in
Washington. The line I had traced was the telephonic
hotline, the top-security link between the Record
Center and the command level. It was a heavy cable,
well protected and always open. It would free me from
the trap. With Gool-tutored skill I scanned the room,
memorized its coordinates. Then I withdrew.
Like a swimmer coming up from a long dive, I fought
my way back to the level of immediate awareness. I
sagged into a chair, blinking at the drab walls, the com-
plexity of the transmitter. I must move fast now, place
the bomb in the transmitter's field, direct it at the target.
With an effort I got to my feet, went to the sump, lifted
the cover. I grasped the lifting eye, strained—and the
bomb came up, out onto the floor. I dragged it to the
transmitter....
And only then realized what I'd been about to do.
My target.
The War Room—the nerve center of Earth's de-
fenses. And I had been ready to dump the hellbomb
there. In my frenzy to be rid of it I would have played
into the hands of the Gool.
VII
I went to the phone. "Kayle! I guess you've got a re-
corder on the line. I'll give you the details of the trans-
mitter circuits. It's complicated, but fifteen minutes
ought to—"
"No time," Kayle cut in. "I'm sorry about everything,
Granthan. If you've finished the machine, it's a tragedy
for humanity—if it works. I can only ask you to try—

END AS A HERO
201
when the Gool command comes—not to give them
what they want. I'll tell you, now, Granthan. The bomb
blows in"—there was a pause—"two minutes and
twenty-one seconds. Try to hold them off. If you can
stand against them for that long at least—"
I slammed the phone down, cold sweat popping out
across my face. Two minutes . . . too late for anything.
The men in the War Room would never know how
close I had come to beating the Gool—and them.
But I could still save the Master Tape. I wrestled the
yellow plastic case that housed the tape onto the table,
into the machine.
And the world vanished in a blaze of darkness, a
clamor of silence.
NOW, MASTERS! NOW! LINK UP! LINK UP!
Like a bad dream coming back in daylight, I felt the
obscene presence of massed Gool minds, attenuated by
distance but terrible in their power, probing, thrusting. I
fought back, struggling against paralysis, trying to gath-
er my strength, use what I had learned. ...
SEE, MASTERS, HOW IT WOULD ELUDE US.
BLANK IT OFF, TOGETHER NOW. . . .
The paths closed before me. My mind writhed, twist-
ed, darted here and there—and met only the impenetra-
ble shield of the Gool defenses.
IT TIRES, MASTERS. WORK SWIFTLY NOW.
LET US IMPRESS ON THE SUBJECT THE COOR-
DINATES OF THE BRAIN PIT. The conceptualiza-
tion drifted into my mind. HERE, MAN. TRANSMIT
THE TAPE HERE!
As from a distance, the monitor personality fraction
watched the struggle. Kayle had been right. The Gool
had waited—and now their moment had come. Even
my last impulse of defiance—to place the tape in the
machine—had been at the Gool command. They had
looked into my mind. They understand psychology as
no human analyst ever could; and they had led me in
the most effective way possible, by letting me believe I
was the master. They had made use of my human inge-

202
KEITH LAUMER
nuity to carry out their wishes—and Kayle had made it
easy for them by evacuating a twentv-mile radius
around me, leaving the field clear for the Gool.
HERE—The Gool voice rang like a bell in my mind
—TRANSMIT THE TAPE HERE!
Even as I fought against the impulse to comply, I felt
my arm twitch toward the machine.
THROW THE SWITCH! the voice thundered.
I struggled, willed my arm to stay at my side. Only a
minute longer, I thought. Only a minute more, and the
bomb would save me. . . •
LINK UP, MASTERS!
I WILL NOT LINK. YOU PLOT TO FEED AT
MY EXPENSE.
NO! BY THE MOTHER WORM, I PLEDGE MY
GROOVE AT THE EATING TROUGH. FOR US
THE MAN WILL GUT THE GREAT VAULT OF
HIS NEST WORLD!
ALREADY YOU BLOAT AT OUR EXPENSE!
FOOL!! WOULD YOU BICKER NOW? LINK UP!
The Gool raged—and I grasped for an elusive
thought and held it. The bomb, only a few feet away.
The waiting machine. And the Gool had given me the
coordinates of their cavern....
With infinite sluggishness, I moved.
LINK UP, MASTERS: THEN ALL WILL
FEED	
IT IS A TRICK. I WILL NOT LINK.
I found the bomb, fumbled for a grip.
DISASTER, MASTERS! NOW IS THE PRIZE
LOST TO US, UNLESS YOU JOIN WITH ME!
My breath choked off in my throat; a hideous pain
coiled outward from my chest. But it was unimportant.
Only the bomb mattered. I tottered, groping. There was
the table; the transmitter. . . .
I lifted the bomb, felt the half-healed skin of my
burned arm crackle as I strained . . .
I thrust the case containing the Master Tape out of

END AS A HERO
203
the field of the transmitter, then pushed, half-rolled the
bomb into position. I groped for the switch, found it. I
tried to draw breath, felt only a surge of agony. Black-
ness was closing in. . . .
The coordinates. . . .
From the whirling fog of pain and darkness, I
brought the target concept of the Gool cavern into view,
clarified it, held it. . . .
MASTERS! HOLD THE MAN! DISASTER!
Then I felt the Gool, their suspicions yielding to the
panic in the mind of the Prime Overlord, link their
power against me. I stood paralyzed, felt mv identity
dissolving like water pouring from a smashed pot. I
tried to remember—but it was too faint, too far away.
Then from somewhere a voice seemed to cut in, the
calm voice of an emergency reserve personality frac-
tion. "You are under attack. Activate the reserve plan.
Level Five. Use Level Five. Act now. Use Level
Five...."
Through the miasma of Gool pressure, I felt the hairs
stiffen on the back of my neck. All around me the Gool
voices raged, a swelling symphony of discord. But they
were nothing. Level Five. . . .
There was no turning back. The compulsions were
there, acting even as I drew in a breath to howl my ter-
ror—
Level Five. Down past the shapes of dreams, the in-
tense faces of hallucination; Level Three; Level Four
and the silent ranked memories	And deeper still—
Into a region of looming gibbering horror, of
shadowy moving shapes of evil, of dreaded presences
that lurked at the edge of vision	
Down amid the clamor of voiceless fears, the mount-
ing hungers, the reaching claws of all that man had
feared since the first tailless primate screamed out his
terror in a treetop: the fear of falling, the fear of
heights.
Down to Level Five: nightmare level.

204
KEITH LAUMER
I groped outward, found the plane of contact—and
hurled the weight of man's ancient fears at the waiting
Gool—and in their black confining caves deep in the
rock of a far world, they felt the roaring tide of fear—
fear of the dark, and of living burial. The horrors in
man's secret mind confronted the horrors of the Gool
Brain Pit. And I felt them break, retreat in blind panic
from me—
All but one. The Prime Overlord reeled back with
the rest, but his was a mind of terrible power. I sensed
for a moment his bloated immense form, the seething
gnawing hungers, insatiable, never to be appeased.
Then he rallied—but he was alone now.
LINK UP, MASTERS! THE PRIZE IS LOST.
KILL THE MAN! KILL THE MAN!
I felt a knife at my heart. It fluttered—and stopped.
And in that instant, I broke past his control, threw the
switch. There was the sharp crack of imploding air.
Then I was floating down, ever down, and all sensation
was far away.
MASTERS! KILL TH
The pain cut off in an instant of profound silence and
utter dark.
Then sound roared in my ears, and I felt the harsh
grate of the floor against my face as I fell, and then I
knew nothing more.
"I hope," General Titus was saying, "that you'll ac-
cept the decoration now, Mr. Granthan. It will be the
first time in history that a civilian has been accorded
this honor—and you deserve it."
I was lying in a clean white bed, propped up by big
soft pillows, with a couple of good-looking nurses hov-
ering a few feet away. I was in a mood to tolerate even
Titus.
"Thanks, General," I said. "I suggest you give the
medal to the volunteer who came in to gas me. He knew
what he was going up against; I didn't."

END AS A HERO
205
"It's over now, Granthan," Kayle said. He attempted
to beam, settled for a frosty smile. "You surely under-
stand—"
"Understanding," I said. "That's all we need to turn
this planet—and a lot of other ones—into the kind of
worlds the human mind needs to expand into."
"You're tired, Granthan," Kayle said. "You get some
rest. In a few weeks you'll be back on the job, as good
as new."
"That's where the key is," I said. "In our minds;
there's so much there, and we haven't even-scratched
the surface. To the mind nothing is impossible. Matter
is an illusion, space and time are just convenient
fictions—"
"I'll leave the medal here, Mr. Granthan. When you
feel equal to it, we'll make the official presentation.
Television. . . ."
He faded off as I closed my eyes and thought about
things that had been clamoring for attention ever since
I'd met the Gool, but hadn't had time to explore. My
arm. . . .
I felt my way along it—from inside—tracing the area
of damage, watching as the bodily defenses worked
away, toiling to renew, replace. It was a slow, mindless
process. But if I helped a little. . . .
It was easy. The pattern was there. I felt the tissues
renew themselves, the skin regenerate.
The bone was more difficult. I searched out the
necessary minerals, diverted blood; the broken ends
knit	
The nurse was bending over me, a bowl of soup in
her hand.
"You've been asleep for a long time, sir," she said,
smiling. "How about some nice chicken broth now?"
I ate the soup and asked for more. A doctor came
and peeled back my bandages, did a doubletake, and
rushed away. I looked. The skin was new and pink, like

206
KEITH LAUMER
a baby's—but it was all there. I flexed my right leg;
there was no twinge of pain.
I listened for a while as the doctors gabbled, clucked,
probed, and made pronouncements. Then I closed my
eyes again. I thought about the matter transmitter. The
government was sitting on it, of course. A military se-
cret of the greatest importance, Titus called it. Maybe
someday the public would hear about it; in the mean-
time—
"How about letting me out of here?" I said suddenly.
A popeyed doctor with a fringe of gray hair blinked at
me, went back to fingering my arm. Kayle hove into
view.
"I want out," I said. "I'm recovered, right? So now
just give me my clothes."
"Now, now, just relax, Granthan. You know it's not
as simple as that. There are a lot of matters we must go
over."
"The war's over," I said. "You admitted that. I want
out."
"Sorry." Kayle shook his head. "That's out of the
question."
"Doc," I said, "am I well?"
"Yes," he said. "Amazing case. You're as fit as you'll
ever be; I've never—"
"I'm afraid you'll have to resign yourself to being here
for a while longer, Granthan," Kayle said. "After all,
we can't—"
"Can't let the secret of matter transmission run
around loose, hey? So until you figure out the angles,
I'm a prisoner, right?"
"I'd hardly call it that, Granthan. Still	"
I closed my eyes. The matter transmitter—a strange
device. A field, not distorting space, but accentuating
certain characteristics of a matter field in space-time,
subtly shifting relationships. . . .
Just as the mind can compare unrelated data, draw
from them new concepts, new parallels.. ..

END AS A HERO
207
The circuits of the matter transmitter . . . and the
patterns of the mind. . . .
The exocosm and the endocosm, like the skin and the
orange, everywhere in contact. . . .
Somewhere there was a beach of white sand, and
dunes with graceful sea oats that leaned in a gentle
wind. There was blue water to the far horizon, and a
blue sky, and nowhere were there any generals with
medals and television cameras, or flint-eyed bureau-
crats with long schemes....
And with this gentle folding... thus....
And a pressure here ... so....
I opened my eyes, raised myself on one elbow—and
saw the sea. ITie sun was hot on my body, but not too
hot, and the sand was white as sugar. Far away, a sea-
gull tilted, circling.
A wave rolled in, washed my foot in cool water.
I lay on my back, and looked up at white clouds in a
blue sky, and smiled—then laughed aloud.
Distantly the seagull's cry echoed my laughter.

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