The Terminators Page 11

  He was a little too calm, a little too self-assured, even for an experienced crook. After all, he was supposed to be a refugee from a scientific laboratory, not truly a graduate of the underworld jungle. Considering that he'd just been roughly manhandled and kneed where it hurt, he was holding up too well for a sheltered Ph.D.—at least for a sheltered Ph.D. without any hope of assistance.

  I grinned at him wolfishly. "And what's so unthinkable about torture. Professor?" I pocketed my borrowed automatic, brought out my knife, and did the one-handed, flick-it-open trick that's mostly for show. It does impress some people. I saw his eyes widen slightly, but he did not speak. I said, "The logical approach here, of course, is through the young lady."

  That got to him. "If you dare—"

  I went on without paying him any attention: "It's a real pity, she's pretty, but it's not my fault if people won't listen to reason. It's altogether up to you. Doctor. If you really prefer to have your daughter spend the rest of her life as Three-Finger Greta, or One-Ear Elfenbein—"

  I won't bore you with the rest of the Torquemada patter. I was marking time, waiting for the long, slow roll of the ship to reach the proper degree of tilt, whatever the nautical term may be. When I felt it approach, I lunged towards the girl. Elfenbein responded predictably, making the intercept, his right hand reaching out. I grabbed it with my left and slammed it against the wardrobe beside him and drove the knife through it, pinning him there. He gave a choked little scream. Beautiful. The man in the corridor outside couldn't stand that. He started to smash his way in, just as I yanked the door open leaving him nothing to smash. . . .

  XI.

  IF I do say so myself, it was neatly done. The timing was right on, as the cats say. The endless, lazy roll of the ship to starboard—there were times when you thought she'd keep on lazily rolling through three hundred and sixty degrees—did all the work for me, once he got himself going. Head down like a charging bull, unable to stop, he hit the far wall of the cabin, actually the side of the ship, with a jolting crash.

  I'd thrown myself backwards onto the berth, knees up, to let him go by. Now all I had to do, as he came to rest on all fours, dazed, was drive a heel at the back of his head. He collapsed in the narrow space between the berths; a youngish man, at a glance, with a sharp, brownish sport coat and the kind of carefully/carelessly styled crop of medium-long hair the executive types are wearing these days. I reached across to take a small automatic pistol from his hand—a tiny .25 Colt; I hadn't seen one of those in years. They really went in for miniature firearms up here in the Arctic. I checked it over. It was loaded, with one in the chamber, ready to go. Well, as ready as those diminutive firearms ever get. There are tales of the anemic little bullet being stopped by a sheepskin coat. You'd hardly call it professional artillery, is what I'm trying to say.

  After closing the cabin door, I looked at Dr. Elfenbein. He wasn't looking very professional at the moment, either. His brain might have earned him a high place in scientific circles, but his threshold of pain was too low for this kind of work. Of course, I don't suppose the man crashing past had done his transfixed hand any good; but anyway, he had fainted.

  The two girls were curled up at the ends of the two berths in almost identical positions resulting from what might be called, scientifically, the nylon-protective reflex. Long years of practice at preserving fragile and expensive stockings have given the modern woman a very fast reaction time when it comes to keeping her legs out of trouble, and it carries over to slacks. Both Greta and Diana had apparently got their trousered limbs tucked up under them instantly, leaving the passage clear for the charging intruder.

  Diana asked calmly, "How do I get this thing down without killing anybody?"

  I took the revolver from her, cautiously. On my last visit to the armory in the basement far below Mac's office, I hadn't been able to obtain the old-fashioned shrouded-hammer pocket model I really prefer. These days of shortages, one uses what one can get; and this was a standard, lightweight, police-type arm, hammer exposed, and now cocked. I showed her how to let it down.

  "How did you happen to cock it?" I asked, returning the weapon to her. "I told you, there's no need to cock the piece and shoot single-action except for pinpoint accuracy. A long, strong, smooth pull on the trigger does the job, cocking and firing it in one motion. That's why they call them double-action, or self-cocking, revolvers."

  "But you said no unnecessary fatal noises," Diana said. "The girl started over to help her daddy when you reached for the door. I wondered if I was supposed to shoot, and then, well, I remembered all those books where the menacing click of a cocked hammer . . . you know. So I hauled it back, and it did make a nice little click, and what do you know? It worked. She stopped right there." Diana looked down curiously. "Who's he?"

  I said, "Probably a guy who sneaked aboard with a message, earlier. He may also be the reinforcements the Torstensen boy was sent after, although he doesn't look like very heavy muscle to me, not with this peashooter he's packing."

  Diana grimaced. "Any more guests, and we'll have to move the show to the ship's ballroom, if any. Where are we going to put him?"

  Her voice was nice and steady, maybe a little too steady to carry complete conviction; but for a beginner she was doing fine.

  "Are you just going to sit there talking?" That was Greta Elfenbein. "Are you just going to leave him there like that?"

  Her eyes were on her parent, slumped against the big wardrobe at the end of the bed with one hand up, like a bag of old clothes suspended from a hook.

  "That's right, ma'am," I said. "Just like that, I'm going to leave him. Until he comes to and talks. Information was what we were trying to achieve, remember?"

  Greta licked her lips. "But you can't. .. ." She hesitated. "If I ... if I tell you what you want to know, will you . . .?" She stopped, as if she'd run out of breath.

  I didn't like it. I mean, it's not a moral business, and you're supposed to use what leverage you can get. I hadn't felt a bit guilty about using the daughter to make an impression on Elfenbein, presumably a hardened sinner like me and playing by the same rules—anyway, the torture routine had been largely a gambit to flush out the gent outside the door. But I wasn't sure about this girl yet. She might be just an innocent music student dragged along on her papa's expedition for reasons yet to be determined. Even if she wasn't particularly innocent, using her daddy's blood to break her down didn't make me feel very proud of myself. Well, I hadn't been sent here to polish my self-esteem.

  "What can you tell me?" I asked. "Who's our Sleeping Beauty on the floor, for starters? Can you tell me that?"

  She licked her lips again. "That's Mr. Yale, Mr. Norman Yale. He works for the Allied Oil Company."

  I frowned. "The Allied Oil Company? Aloco. . . . Wait a minute!" I remembered my recent conversation with Hank Priest. Things were beginning to come together. "That's one of the outfits developing Ekofisk, along with Phillips and a bunch of smaller fry, isn't it?"

  "Yes, of course." She hesitated. "I ... I guess the Aloco people have hopes of, well, secretly helping themselves to a slightly larger slice of the pie, if you know what I mean."

  "And they heard about our little project, and figured we had some interesting machinery they could use, or the plans for the same, and hired your daddy to get it for them?" Greta Elfenbein nodded reluctantly. I recalled the Skipper saying that Ekofisk was difficult for various political and geographical reasons, but he hadn't said it was impossible. Apparently some Aloco executives didn't think it was impossible, either. I went on slowly, thinking aloud: "So when Dr. Elfenbein ran into a snag on this ship, a snag named Helm, he dispatched a messenger, Torstensen, to report the problem to his principals. And they sent him Mr. Norman Yale to provide advice and assistance, not to mention a lousy little .25 caliber popgun. You say Yale works for them. How?"

  "Well—" She was going to wear out her lips, licking at them. She'd already gone through all the lipstick she'd had on, not that she'd been
what you'd call a heavy lip-sticker. "Do you know a man named Denison?" she asked.

  "I know who he is." That wasn't the complete truth, but it was certainly no lie.

  Greta said, "I think you could say, Mr. Helm, that whatever Mr. Denison is to Petrox, Mr. Yale is to Aloco. A ... a troubleshooter, I think you'd call him."

  I looked down at the feeble firearm in my hand, and at the stylishly dressed and barbered young man at my feet, who was showing signs of reviving.

  "Oh, dear," I said softly. "Oh, dearie me! You mean this Madison Avenue type is supposed to be a match for

  Paul Denison? Excuse me a moment, I've got to call my broker; I want to make sure he unloads Aloco fast. Denison" eats bright young characters like this with his Chivas Regal. One peanut, one cashew, one Norman Yale. Crunch, crunch, crunch, slurp. . . . Come on, Buster, let's see what you really look like."

  Diana slid aside to cover the Elfenbeins across the way while I heaved the newcomer up and dumped him at the outboard end of the berth where she'd been sitting. With five people in the stateroom, it was a little like operating in a sardine tin. Yale's eyes were open by the time I got through.

  "What. . . where ... oh, my head!" His eyes came to a focus, not on me, but on a spot diagonally across the cabin. "Oh, my God!" he said. "Is that a knife, right through his hand? Oh, my God!"

  I looked at him hard, wondering if he was for real. "And this is a gun," I said. "Your gun. Where'd you get it?"

  "Well," he said, "well, of course we don't approve of violence, but under the circumstances they thought it might prove useful; and I did have some marksmanship training in the Army before I was assigned to public relations. . . ."

  He was straightening his artistic necktie as he talked. He was a handsome specimen, almost as pretty as Erlan Torstensen in his brown-haired way but much more adult and sophisticated, of course. At least he undoubtedly considered himself so.

  "Public relations?" I said. "Is that what you're doing for Aloco?" When he frowned quickly, I said, "Oh, Miss Elfenbein performed the introductions while you were napping."

  "Yes, of course," he said, with a reproachful glance at the girl on the other side of the little cabin. "Well, P.R.'s what it says on the door. Actually, I'm more or less responsible for the corporate image, regardless of what that involves, if you know what I mean. Any threat to the company's reputation. . . ."

  "I see," I said. "Any threat like that and you'll handle it. With or without a gun."

  "If I can't, I know where to hire men who can," he snapped, showing his teeth suddenly, like an overbred show dog displaying the dangerously erratic temperament lurking beneath the gorgeous looks. Reconsidering, he went on smoothly: "Let me withdraw that statement, Mr. Helm. It was not intended as a threat, I assure you. Obviously, there's been a serious miscalculation. We were told we'd be dealing only with members of a hastily organized and fairly amateurish government agency with rather shaky support in Washington. It was only recently that we were informed that Captain Priest had been able to enlist real professional help. If we'd known that at the start, maybe. ..." He shrugged. "Anyway, I've been authorized to offer terms; that's what I'm really here for."

  "You have a funny way of establishing diplomatic relations, gun in hand."

  "I ... I didn't know what was happening in here. I heard a cry; I thought I'd better intervene quickly. Obviously a mistake. I apologize. What about it, Mr. Helm?"

  "What about your terms?" I asked. "Let's hear them, and I’ll forward them to my chief in Washington, but I'd better warn you he's not much at negotiating—"

  Yale cleared his throat. "I see no good reason to bother your chief about a detail like this, do you?"

  I looked at him for a moment; then I shot a meaningful glance towards Diana Lawrence. "You picked a Hell of a spot to broach the subject, amigo'' I said to Yale.

  He shrugged his shoulders once more. "You can keep her quiet, I'm sure, one way or another, Mr. Helm. It would have to be done in any case, wouldn't it? Anyway, she's your problem."

  "Well, okay," I said. "How much?"

  "Twenty-five big ones?"

  It's really funny how many of them take for granted everybody can be bought with money—or maybe not. The ones who are for sale themselves probably can't comprehend the psychology of folks who aren't. Obviously, slick young Mr. Yale would happily have sold Washington to the British, New York to the Dutch, and Aloco to Mr. Lincoln Alexander Kotko, for twenty-five thousand dollars and it simply hadn't occurred to him that somebody might refuse such a deal—except perhaps to hold out for twenty-seven five.

  Actually, it was a very flattering' offer. It meant that somebody at Aloco had checked on me, and considered me a real menace to the company's reputation and profits. Unfortunately, they hadn't checked quite far enough. They hadn't got to the fine print that said that while I was a real lousy citizen, capable of all kinds of dirty tricks, maybe even treason, I just didn't happen to be all that fond of money. I don't say I can't be bought. Maybe someday somebody'll offer me something I really value; then we'll see just how loyal and patriotic I am. However, unlike Norman Yale and Paul Denison, I just don't happen to set all that store on cash.

  I was aware that Diana was watching me kind of uncertainly, wondering whether she ought to start getting indignant and reproachful. I was tempted to tease her by carrying the act a little farther—besides, it would have been interesting to know just how far Yale had been authorized to go. Was I considered merely a twenty-five-grand government slob, or a fifty-grand U.S. creep, or maybe even a hundred-grand All American louse? But Elfenbein was stirring uneasily in his sleep, and there wasn't time for any more comedy. Well, not much more.

  ''Half a million," I said, and was a little startled to see that for a moment I was taken seriously. There was a funny little silence. I went on plaintively, "Hell, that's only a fraction of what you folks are expecting to make on this deal, Yale. It's got to be, or you wouldn't be taking the risk."

  His eyes had narrowed. "Half a—"

  "Take it or leave it," I said.

  "You've got to be kidding]"

  I grinned abruptly. "Friend, you're catching on. It's nice to be smart, isn't it?" I stopped grinning. "Now, if you have any more funny jokes, why don't you save them for a better occasion? Right now, I've got some advice for you, Mr. Yale. You're going to sit right in this corner. You're not going to move a muscle. You're not going to open your mouth unless directly addressed by me. If you disobey any of these instructions, this young lady will put a great big hole through—"

  Suddenly I slammed the little pistol, flat in the palm of my hand, against the side of his head, hard. He bounced sideways against the cabin wall and slumped there, staring at me with big, brown, shocked, and angry eyes.

  I said, harshly, "In case you're wondering what that was for, Mr. Norman Yale, it was for looking at Mrs. Barth the way you just did and thinking that I was obviously bluffing and she wouldn't shoot, not a nice young lady like that. It was to save your life, amigo, because I'm not bluffing and she will shoot. . . . Okay, Madeleine, he's all yours. I'U take care of the ones across the room."

  "I've got him. Matt," Diana said quietly, sliding past to take the middle of the berth close to her prisoner. "Matt, I—"

  Whatever she'd been about to say, she checked it. I knew what it was, anyway. She'd been going to teU me that she'd had perfect faith in me; absolute confidence that I wouldn't sell out, not even for half a million.

  I grinned. "You're a lousy little liar."

  "I didn't say anything," she protested, but there was a spot of color in each cheek.

  "His name was Wetherill," Greta Elfenbein said abruptly.

  "What?" I glanced her way.

  "That's what you want to know, isn't it?" Her voice was impatient. "You want to know who betrayed you, who gave Papa the information that brought us to this ship? That's what you asked. Well, I'm telling you. The man was one of your people. He was paid a good deal of money. His name was Robert Wetheril
l. Now . . . now will you please take Papa down?"

  Diana stirred indignantly beside me. "That's not true! Robbie would never have—"

  I glanced at her sharply. "Keep him covered, dammit! Robbie? The guy you said was dead?"

  Greta Elfenbein laughed sharply. "Of course he's dead. When they learned he'd betrayed them, they murdered him —or isn't it murder when one government agent kills another? Of course they made it look like an automobile accident." She went on quickly before Diana could protest: "Please, Mr. Helm, now will you pull out that dreadful knife? Please?"

  "And have you clam up just when you're speaking your piece so nicely?"

  "I'll tell you everything I know if you only ... if you'll just take him down. I promise!"

  Diana was fuming, obviously on the verge of bursting with counter-accusations; as if I gave a damn, at the moment, who'd killed a guy who'd been dead before I arrived in Norway. I gave her a sharp little sign to remind her that her business was Norman Yale, and reached around and got one of the ship's towels from the rack by the little sink in the comer. I wondered how soon we'd start getting. complaints from the stewardess about all the disappearing linen—I'd already shot a hole in part of this cabin's quota. I folded the towel once and laid it across the unconscious man's lap. Then I took the strain off his arm, yanked out the blade, and placed his hand on the towel so he wouldn't bleed all over himself and the bunk.

  "How about some Kleenex?" I asked Diana.

  "Right there on top of my back by the foot of the berth." Her voice was cool and unfriendly. "The first aid kit you wanted is on the edge of the washbasin, in case you didn't notice."

  "You can start talking again while I clean up," I said to Greta. "What did Robert Wetherill have to say?"

  She glanced at her parent, whose color seemed to be returning, although he still hadn't opened his eyes.

  "Very well," she said. "I'll keep my part of the bargain; but I can't tell you everything he said because he did a lot of talking to Papa when I wasn't there. There was something about a fantastic invention cooked up by a drunken oilfield mechanic—well, we'd already heard about that from the Aloco people. That's why Mr. Yale got in touch with Papa in the first place. Papa had put out feelers, the way he does, and turned up Mr. Wetherill, who was willing to talk, for a price."