COMPLEAT Collected SFF Works, page 155
Mayall did not move for a long moment. Then he drew a shaken breath.
"I don't believe you," he said. "You're lying. You're trying to trick me."
Harding shrugged.
Mayall leaned forward over the control desk.
"What proof have you got?" he demanded, his voice hoarse.
Harding threw back his head and laughed. Then he took one final deep pull at his cigarette, threw it to the floor, ground it out under his toe.
"All right, Mayall," he said crisply. "You can step down now. I'm taking over."
Mayall jerked back in his chair, startled and incredulous. His tongue came out again and touched his lip lightly.
"Like hell you are," he said. "You can't throw a scare into—"
"Shut up!" Harding snapped. "Get on your feet, George. I mean it! Out of that chair and open the door for me. I've played it your way till now. But I know all I need to know. I'm a lot smarter than you ever were. I can take over, and I'm doing it. And you can't do a thing to stop me. You can't kill me! So I'm giving you one last chance—to join me."
"You … you're insane!" Mayall said, in a stunned voice. "This is my island. I know every nerve-center on it. My men could—"
"Could do everything but injure me," Harding said, and stepped forward briskly. "So you lose. Let's put it to the test now. I'm tired of talking. You had your fun, and you've told me enough so I know who'll win this little game."
"You're crazy!" Mayall cried, scraping his chair back. "I'll have my boys kill you! I … I'll send you off the island. I—"
"No you won't," Harding told him, rounding the corner of the desk. "Because you aren't sure. Maybe I've got that proof from Ganymede right here in my pocket. You want to bet I haven't? We'll call your Team together and see what—"
"Oh no you don't!" Mayall shouted, his voice shaking. "You'll never see my Team!"
"Afraid I'll get you kicked off this one, too?" Harding asked ironically. "Up! Out of that chair, George. You're going to work the trick lock on that door over there and open up your Round Table. Oh yes, you are. Then you'll call your Team together and we'll make a few trial runs. You needn't worry, George. You're perfectly safe. You and I couldn't hurt each other if our lives depended on it—and maybe they do. It doesn't make a bit of difference. Open the door."
"You'll never get that door open," Mayall said, stepping backward.
Harding snorted impatiently.
"Here, get out of my way," he said. "What kind of a code have you set it for? I haven't time to argue about it."
He ran his hand experimentally over the surface of the metal plate set where the lock should be. Between plate and palm he felt the varying pressures slide soft and rippling. There was something familiar about the pattern of the pressure. It could hardly be the old cipher, the original team-code that had opened the doors to seven Round Tables, far away in time and space. It could hardly be that, and yet—
The door swung gently open under Harding's palm.
Mayall jerked around, his breath rasping with surprise.
"Who told you my code?"
Harding frowned at him. "It's the old code. Didn't you realize that?"
"You're crazy. It can't be. I made it up, arbitrarily. Why should I have used the old code?"
"You've been fighting yourself all down the line, haven't you?" Harding said, and stepped through into the little black-steel room.
Mayall stumbled after him, stammering protests. "It can't be! You're crazy! You found it out—somehow."
Wearily Harding said over his shoulder: "You must have flunked basic psych, George. It's the old cipher, but it unlocks a different door now, no matter what your unconscious had on its mind when it set up Twelve-Wye-Lambda's key. That door will never open again for you. Or me. This one will have to do, and it's good enough for me. Now let's have a look at your Team. Who are they, George? Where are they?"
Mayall laughed, a high whinny of mirthlessness.
"You'll never know. I'll kill you first."
Harding snorted. "Think so? You're welcome to try."
"You can't get to my Team!" Mayall shouted. "They … they're all on Venus. They're—"
Harding swung round and regarded the excited man with a sudden, quickened surprise. "Don't talk like a fool, George. Of course they're not on Venus. What's the matter with you?"
"They are on Venus!" Mayall cried. "That's it! And if you call them together to talk about Ganymede—you know what they'll do, don't you? So you can't do it, Ed! You can't!"
Harding turned around completely and looked at Mayall with a frown between his brows.
"What's wrong with you, George? I think you really are a little crazy. Are you jealous, George? Is that it?" He laughed suddenly. "Maybe I've got something there. You think you are the Integrator, is that the trouble? Well, George, my friend, I may not be able to kill you even if my life depends on it, but—I can dismantle your Integrator! How would you like that?"
Mayall drew a whistling between his teeth. He stepped backward into the open doorway, leaned to grope toward his desk, his sunken eyes not moving from Harding's. Then he let the breath out in a sigh and straightened. There was sweat on his face and he was breathing hard.
"Stand back, Ed," he said grimly. "Get away from that table. Now I can do it! Now I know I can kill you!"
Harding looked down into the black eye of the pistol trained upon his middle. He lifted his gaze to meet Mayall's murderous stare.
"Go ahead," he said. "Try."
Sweat trickled down Mayall's forehead. His beard jutted. Ridges of tendon began to stand out on the back of his gun hand. But the crooked finger inside the trigger guard didn't move at all. He lowered his head, staring at the gun. Then he brought his left hand forward to grip his right in reinforcement. Both hands were shaking badly.
"Threshold reactions happen inside the body," Harding said. "What good will that do?"
Mayall's breath whistled through his teeth more sharply than before. He looked up at Harding, a white, frantic glare. Suddenly he closed his eyes, squeezing the lids shut. Panting, he tried to pull the trigger.
His gun hand quivered—quivered and began to swerve. Slowly it moved until the gun muzzle pointed beyond Harding, toward the wall.
Now the gun cracked, six times, six sharp explosions that blended into one. Mayall's eyes stayed shut. His gun hand dropped.
"I did it," he said in a whisper. "I've killed you. I—"
Slowly he opened his eyes and looked into Harding's. Then his gaze went farther, resting upon the six silvery star-shaped holes in the black wall.
Harding shook his head gently. He turned his back upon the man in the doorway, dismissing him. He pulled out the chair that faced the tri-di screen and sank into it.
Then the chamber of memory slid softly over to superimpose upon this real chamber. The little square black-steel room was suddenly a part of Harding, as close and warm as the domed walls that shielded his living brain.
He laid his palms flat on the metal plate.
At first it was like wind under his hands, then water, then soft sand gently embedding his palms. Soundlessly he spoke. "Ready, boys" he said. "Come in."
"You can't do it, Ed," Mayall said behind him. "You can't—"
In the outer room a sudden crash sounded. A sudden voice shouted with a wheeze in it, "Mayall! Harding! Do you hear me? Turner speaking! Mayall, answer me!"
Harding twisted in his chair, glancing up with a startled face to meet Mayall's eyes. Mayall swung up his empty gun and spun too, toward the door. The antechamber was empty, but Turner's harsh breathing filled it with sound. And on the wall-screen Turner's sweating, unstable face glared blankly at the unoccupied room.
"Mayall!" the fat man shouted. "I know you're there! Step out where I can see you, or I'll blow the whole island sky-high!"
Harding said softly, with derision in his whisper, "So Turner couldn't get away, eh? Just like a flea on a dog—you know where he is every minute. Oh, sure. Now what? Is he bluffing?"
"Harding! Mayall!" Turner's voice made the antechamber echo. "I know you're there. I saw you both go into the Integration Building. I'll blow up Akassi and everything on it unless you do as I say! I mean it! I'll give you a ten-count, starting now. One. Two. Harding, do you hear me?"
"All right, Turner," Harding called, not stirring from his chair. "This is Harding. What do you want?"
The wheezing voice sighed with relief.
"Step out where I can watch you, Harding. Mayall, too. I—"
"Where are you?" Harding interrupted. "You're bluffing."
"I'm at the relay station on the hill. There's a lake south of me and I can see the village. I can see the Integration Building from here, and the door to it, Harding. I'll blow you up! I mean it!"
"You couldn't blow anybody up," Harding said, and moved his fingers urgently on the table. In a whisper he urged the tri-di screen, "Come in, boys! Come in!"
"It's no good, Harding," Mayall said, also in a whisper. "I told you. You can't work it. Nobody can but me. And I won't. You'll never see my Team!"
"Listen to me, Harding!" Turner's voice insisted from the antechamber. "Step out here and look. You'll see! I've got a UHF beam pinpointed and focused right in the middle of the fuel tanks of the spaceship. You know what ultrasonics can do, Harding?"
"I know," Harding said flatly. "If that spaceship blows, you go with it. Or do you mind?"
"How long would I live if I'm caught?" Turner asked logically. "Now do as I tell you, or—"
"It's a bluff," Harding said laconically, aloud, and bent over the table, his palms molding the test-pattern with frantic speed. "Come in, come in, boys!" he cried in an urgent whisper.
Mayall laughed sardonically and very softly at his shoulder.
"It's not a bluff!" Turner shouted, his voice thick. "Look here! I broke into the relay station. I got the beam up fast through the hot frequency into UHF—so fast the fuel didn't have time to blow. Then I pinpointed it right in the middle of the tanks. I've got my hand on the lever. As long as I hold it there, O.K. But if I let go, or if I'm killed—what happens?" Triumph wheezed in the fat man's voice. "The beam runs down the scale. On the way it hits the hot frequency. In the fuel tank! I can drop it to hot as fast as I can move my hand. Now, am I bluffing?"
"You'll never do it," Harding called. "I don't believe you."
Turner was silent for a hard-breathing moment. Then he shouted suddenly:
"I've got it! You'll have to do as I say! Harding, are you listening? You can take the chance with your own life if you want to—but can you take it with Mayall! He's in there—I saw him go in. Mayall, do you hear me? You've got to do as I say or Harding will die with everyone else on Akassi! Come out, Mayall! Harding, come out! I mean it. I'll finish the ten-count and then the whole island goes. Three … four—"
Harding met Mayall's eyes. He shrugged reluctantly.
"He's got us," he whispered. "Unless—" Suddenly he shoved back the chair and jumped to his feet, laughing in soft triumph. "Unless you call together the Team, George! Maybe I can't, but you can and you've got to … to save my life! Here, sit down and get at it, quick!"
For an instant longer Mayall only stared at him, blank-faced. Then—
"All right!" the bearded man snapped. "I will!" His manner changed abruptly and completely. Faced with a threat he could counter, his mental indecisiveness vanished in a breath. He flung himself into the chair and slapped both hands down hard on the plate.
"Seven … eight—" Turner called from the screen. "Harding, you've got about three seconds left to live. Step out here, or—"
"Go on, step out," Mayall said softly over his shoulder, his voice crisp with new decision. "I've got an idea."
"Oh, no," Harding whispered. "I want to see your Team. I'm going to—"
"You're going to die if you don't! He isn't bluffing. Listen, now! Go out and keep him quiet while I figure out an answer with my Team. You haven't any choice, Ed! My life depends on it, too!" He flashed a sardonic glance upward. "Look, Ed—tell him I'm dead. Tell him you killed me. Otherwise he'll insist I come out too, and I can't. Go on, quick!"
"Nine—" Turner called. "Harding, are you listening? On the count of ten the whole island blows. Mayall, do you hear? I'll—"
"Hold on, Turner," Harding said laconically, and stepped out of the door into full view. "Mayall can't hear you. He can't hear anything. I … I've just killed him."
Turner glared down at him from the wall. His fat face was scratched and trickling with blood from the underbrush he had run through. His clothing was torn and he had tied up his wounded wrist with a soaked rag. His good hand rested above his head on a poised lever. He was leaning heavily upon the face of the TV screen, so that he seemed to rest against empty air in the wall above Harding. Beyond him, through a window, a blue lake twinkled, and a road wound down through thickets, among trees and valley to reappear as the village street. Harding could see the image of the Integration Building clearly, with its open door. He had a moment's dreadful impulse to step to the door and wave at himself.
"Dead?" Turner repeated, and sighed gustily. "I thought … I thought you couldn't kill him."
"So did I," Harding said dryly, with a glance at Mayall through the inner door. "Up to the last minute. Then I had to. You can relax now, Turner. Mayall's dead. There's just two of us now, and we'd be fools not to work together."
Turner laughed.
"I trusted you once," he said, "Come out of the Integration Building and walk north. Head for the relay station. You'll spot it when you get to the top of the hill. We'll talk a lot better when I'm pointing a gun at your belly."
"Everybody keeps pointing guns at my belly," Harding said mildly. "I'll develop a stigmatic target if this goes on. Relax. I could blow up the island too, if I felt like it. This building's the control center for the whole setup, and I know practically every gismo here. Wait a minute, Turner. I want a cigarette." He turned his back to the screen, searching upon the desk top as if for matches. "Mayall, get busy!" he whispered, rolling his eyes sidewise. "What's the delay for? Call your Team!"
"Harding," Turner said from the wall. "Turn around here. I don't trust you. Come out of that door and start walking north. I mean it!" His fat hand quivered on the lever.
"All right," Harding said. "Take it easy. Can't I light a cigarette first?" He cupped a match in his hands, and in their shelter looked anxiously at Mayall. The bearded man had taken his hands off the Round Table plate and was scribbling busily in large letters on a pad.
"No time for the Team," he whispered. "Look—read this." He held it up. Harding blew smoke and scanned the lines of writing. He nodded very slightly, turned to face Turner on the screen.
"Relax," he said. "I'm on my way. Just take it easy—we need each other now. I'll play along with you."
"Have you got any choice?" Turner demanded angrily.
"Maybe not. Any last instructions? Because after I leave this building we can't talk. I'll be beyond reach of any TV screens."
"Get going, that's all. If I don't see you before I count to—"
"Hold on!" Harding said. "I've got some … some stairs to climb before I reach the door. This room is two flights underground. I'll be outside in about twenty seconds. Don't be rash!"
"Twenty seconds, then," Turner said. "I'm starting to count now."
Instantly Harding turned away and stepped toward the inner door, outside the range of the screen.
Mayall moved ahead of him, on tiptoe, every gesture precise and accurate now that he had a definite job to do. But Harding didn't like the suggestion of a satisfied smirk half hidden by his beard.
"Mark time!" Mayall said urgently. "Mark time!
He had swung open a section of the wall, revealing within, between parted chain mail curtains, a little cubicle hung with glittering, swinging mesh from floor to ceiling. A shove sent Harding staggering into the shining tent. The curtains closed behind him. Mayall's whisper sounded disembodied from outside.
"Mark time—but stay in the same place. Like a treadmill." A switch clicked loudly somewhere behind the curtain. "You're on. He can see your image. Start moving, Ed."
Suddenly, without having moved a step, Harding found himself facing the village street. In perfect reflection upon the swinging walls around him he saw dusty roads patterned with sun and shadow, the sheds across the way, the Integration Building looming behind him, its door swinging open. Then the street swung smoothly from right to left before him, lay out straight toward the vanishing point between two distant hills. It was exactly as if he and not the street had turned.
