The Beasts of Valhalla, page 25
“All right.”
“You and Golly live in the house, guard it at night?”
“Yes.”
“With those big feet of yours, do you think you can sneak into Loge’s room while he’s sleeping without waking him or having Golly hear you?”
“Maybe,” Hugo said after some hesitation. “Why do you want me to do that?”
“The thing he wears around his neck all the time is a key to the room I want to show you. Bring it to Garth and me tonight, along with the keys to our cell.”
“Mongo, you remember that I warned you what could happen if this turns out to be crazy talk.”
“I’ll remember. You remember what I said about this being dangerous. Is there any way I can get you to help us get the biosamples and test results back without showing you these things?”
“No.”
“Don’t get caught, Hugo. If the nice people who run this place that you think is a friendly neighborhood clinic catch you at this, they’ll probably kill you on the spot. I’d hate to have you learn the truth the hard way, while a bullet’s ripping through your brain.”
Garth, holding a torch, led Hugo and me down the long stone corridor leading to the Treasure Room. Two floors above, according to Hugo, Siegfried and Obie Loge were sleeping, and Golly was watching “The Late, Late Show” on television while she listened to Mozart, earphones on her head; tiptoeing through the house, Garth hadn’t smelled the gorilla, and we assumed she hadn’t smelled us.
“Hey, Mongo,” Garth whispered, “I really was impressed with Loge’s magic key trick. As I recall, you have difficulty cutting a deck of cards.”
“Behold,” I said as we reached the door at the end of the corridor and I took the torch from Garth’s hand. I passed the medallion back and forth over the flame, and the four rings began to curl and twist into the shape of a key. I touched the flame to the door, and the keyhole appeared. “No trick; just a little Sorscience from that sociopathic delinquent. This is made of a substance called anitol molten alloy—it’s metal with a memory. The area of the keyhole is the same thing. The molecules will return to the same configuration they were in when the metal was shaped at a certain temperature. This anitol was formed into the shape of a key when it was heated to flame-temperature, then twisted into the rings after it had cooled. Heat it, and it goes back to its original shape. It’s used in the newer thermostats and thermocouplings.”
I twisted the key in the lock and pushed open the door. The sound and light show began. Hugo, who’d looked rather dazed when we’d entered the corridor and lit the torches, looked even more dazed as he roughly pushed between Garth and me, ducked through the doorway and entered the Treasure Room. Garth and I followed.
We let the giant browse around for a couple of minutes, and then Garth went to the control panel and dimmed the lights. The photo-mural disappeared, and Hugo’s gasp was audible. He stumbled slightly as he went across the room and stood before the clear Plexiglas shield, staring out over Mount Doom.
“Those are human bones over there,” Hugo whispered hoarsely as Garth and I came over and joined him.
“As advertised, Hugo,” I said.
“Don’t bother asking what those flying things are,” Garth said drily as two of the leathery flappers swooped across our field of vision. “Nobody seems to know. Now we’ll show you—”
“You won’t show anything to anybody,” Siegfried Loge said.
Pfft.
Pfft.
I reached for the dart in my left shoulder, never got my arm up; a powerful, fast-acting paralytic had almost instantly erased all sensation in my body, and nothing worked. I started to collapse, was grabbed under the arms and turned around by a burly Warrior. Garth, in the same condition and supported by another Warrior, found himself helpless and unable to do anything more than stare at the Loges, Golly, and a third Warrior who were standing by the entrance.
Golly must have grown bored with “The Late, Late Show.”
Siegfried Loge lowered his dart gun, and the third Warrior slowly advanced across the room, his machine pistol aimed directly at the center of Hugo’s forehead. Golly followed and, looking about as shamefaced as a gorilla is ever likely to look, took the control boxes from the giant’s hand. Hugo, the bore of the gun pressed against his spine, was ushered out of the Treasure Room, and Garth and I were turned around again to look out over the chasm of Mount Doom.
“I figured I’d use synthetic curare instead of PCP in the darts this time,” Siegfried Loge said as he and his son came over to stand beside us at the shield. “I didn’t want to let you do anything to get yourselves killed, but I didn’t want you to sleep through this show.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Golly growing increasingly agitated.
PLEASE NO KILL FUCKING HUGO
PLEASE NO KILL FUCKING HUGO
“Obie, turn on the monitor and bring me the microphone.”
The younger Loge, still in his bathrobe and slippers and looking rather sleep-eyed, flopped across the room and turned on one of the television monitors; it showed the inside of the black cell. He took a hand microphone on a long extension cable out of a small recess, brought it back to his father.
A few moments later the monitor showed Hugo being shoved into the black cell. A door slammed down out of the ceiling, trapping him. The giant shaded his eyes and squinted into the floodlight and television camera, which were on a level with his head.
“Take the torch off the wall, Hugo,” Loge said into the microphone. “It will light automatically when you take it out of the bracket.”
Hugo pulled the torch out of the bracket, and it instantly burst into flame. Loge pressed a button on the side of the microphone; across the chasm, at the apex of the three sets of steps, a door opened in the rock. I could see Hugo in the opening, and he was shielding his face with one hand as his long hair whipped around his head. It was very hot in the chasm, with a lot of swirling air currents.
“Ohhhh … ahhhhh … my … faawwlt. Doohhnt … kill … him.”
Loge ignored my rather pathetic, probably unintelligible, attempt at speech.
“The door behind you won’t open again, Hugo,” the scientist said. “You can wait there until you rot, or you can take your chances in Mount Doom. Choose a set of steps, try to make it to one of the caves. Who knows? You might be the first one to find your way out of there. Lots of luck, you oversize idiot.”
Loge grunted and draped the microphone cord around his neck as Hugo, his torch held aloft and his body bathed in a red glow, stepped through the opening. He chose the middle set of steps, which appeared to be the widest.
He’d gone about twenty yards before the flying things hit him.
Hugo draped one arm over his head and flailed blindly with his torch, but the brown things kept drooping clumsily but accurately from the darkness above; they bit at him with their teeth, pounded his body with the appendages that served as wings, swarmed over him like huge, murderous bats. His clothes torn and bloody, Hugo staggered to the edge of a step, slipped, and fell out of sight toward the furnace glow below.
The curare hadn’t paralyzed my tear glands.
28.
Stunned by the death of Hugo, racked by guilt, I sat in a corner of our dungeon cell and mourned in silence. Garth understood and left me alone.
After dinner we had a visitor—Stryder London. The head of Siegmund Loge’s private army was out of uniform; he wore a pin-striped suit under a camel’s hair topcoat—they were his traveling clothes, I decided, his “real people” disguise. In each hand he carried a cylindrical metal canister.
“What the fuck do you want?” Garth growled.
“I came to say good-bye,” the man with the close-cropped hair and hard eyes replied evenly. “You both have great courage. I have considerable respect for the Frederickson brothers, and I’m sorry things are the way they are.”
“That’s touching, London.” Garth turned to me. “Mongo, don’t be rude. Come on over here and say bye-bye to the nice man.”
I got to my feet, walked to the front of the cell. I pointed to the canisters. “You’ve got Garth and me in there, right?”
“Yes,” London answered simply.
“You’re taking the biosamples to Siegmund Loge.”
London did not reply.
“Where is he, London? Where does Siegmund Loge hang out?” When he remained silent, I shook my head impatiently. “For Christ’s sake, London, Garth and I are probably going to be dead soon. What difference does it make what you tell us?”
“It makes a difference to me. It’s a matter of security which is unrelated to the question of your survival.”
“You’re a pisser, London—as well as a traitor.”
Stryder London stiffened. “Does it make you feel better to insult me, Frederickson? I’m not responsible for what’s happened to you.”
“You work for the people who are responsible. It makes me feel better to state the truth when everybody else is telling lies, even to themselves. There are no good Nazis; it’s not enough to say that you’re following orders.”
“I am following orders, but I’m following them because I choose to. I take full responsibility for my actions.”
“You choose to work for these homicidal maniacs? You want to take responsibility for what goes on in Ramdor?”
“My responsibility is to Siegmund Loge, and his goals may be different from what you think they are. You shouldn’t take anything anybody around here says too seriously. They’re unbalanced, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
That got a hoot of laughter from Garth and me.
“I knew it!” Garth said. “They are making cheesecake!”
London frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Forget it,” Garth said with a derisive gesture of dismissal.
“What are Siegmund Loge’s goals?” I asked.
Silence.
“It doesn’t make any difference, London. You’re still a traitor.”
“You’re wrong, Frederickson,” the Warrior said in a low voice that trembled just slightly. “If I were free to tell you certain things, you’d understand—and might even approve of what Siegmund Loge will accomplish. It’s for the good of America—the America we used to know, and the America that will exist once again.”
“Oh, yeah; that good old America—the one that sneaks up on its enemies and turns them all—man, woman, and child—into monsters.”
London shook his head. “No. That’s not what Project Valhalla is about.”
“Your security has already been breached, London. The demented delinquent upstairs—the one with the baseball cap—already admitted as much to us.”
“Dr. Siegfried Loge is a brilliant scientist, Frederickson; the work at Ramdor must be done, no matter how unattractive it may appear to you. However, Dr. Loge often has difficulty separating reality from his own personal fantasies. When it comes to his father’s ultimate goals, he doesn’t know what’s he’s talking about.”
“Huh?”
“There will be no monsters created—except for the two of you, and that was an accident; a fortuitous accident, but still an accident.”
“Accident, bullshit. Jake Bolesh was plugged into the command network of Project Valhalla, just as you are.”
“You purposely miss my point, Frederickson. What Siegmund Loge is doing is for the benefit of all mankind.”
“You and Hugo must have hit it off real good.”
“Order, Frederickson,” Stryder London said quietly. “That’s what the Valhalla Project is about.”
The statement wafted about in the dungeon air, went in one of my ears and out the other, then came back in and squatted; it was cold. “Genetic control of behavior,” I said.
“Yes,” London said evenly. “Everything that’s been done, and is being done, is part of a search for the specific genes that control behavior.”
“You may be hunting a ghost. How can you put a net around what makes us individuals?”
“No, Frederickson; the hunt is for those genes which bind us to the group and which compel us to work for the common good under the command of leaders.”
“What leaders?”
“Those men who are fit to lead.”
“I note that you don’t say ‘elected’ to lead.”
“Don’t play that silly patriotic game with me, Frederickson; we’re both too sophisticated. Democracy is a farce. You’re a criminologist, and you know it’s a farce. Only fools, phonies, or idiots ever go into politics, and so only fools, phonies, or idiots are ever elected to office. Our society falls apart, and thus the world falls apart.”
“Because our society should lead the world?”
“Of course. I’m a man of peace, Frederickson, and soon we will have peace; we’ll have peace because we’ll have order.”
“Because everyone will do what the government tells them to do.”
“Yes. The entire world will be a place of peace and order.”
“Under the control of Siegmund Loge, your fuehrer.”
“Under the control of Siegmund Loge, my leader, and the one man best suited to bring our species back from the brink of destruction where it finds itself.”
“Is there a religious angle to any of this?”
“Not really. In an ordered, peaceful society free of stress and delusion, all men will naturally gravitate toward Christ, since Christ is God’s Son, and mankind’s Savior. However, Jesus taught us that it is right to render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and unto God what is God’s. We are Caesar; with us in command, Christianity will naturally flourish.”
“I think I prefer the version Father feeds his flock,” Garth said drily. “It has more meat to it.”
“He’s getting ready to experiment on those people, isn’t he, London?” I asked.
The Warrior shrugged. “Eventually, yes. Since some initial experimentation will be needed, who better to use than those who will submit joyfully?”
“He already controls their behavior.”
London smiled thinly. “You’d be surprised how many different types of communes there are, Dr. Frederickson.”
“Nothing about any of you people or Project Valhalla would surprise me anymore. On the other hand, there may be a surprise in store for you.”
“What would that be?”
“You keep forgetting Mr. Lippitt. I’m betting our old man blows away your old man, and that’ll be all she wrote on Project Valhalla.”
“I’m sorry to take away your last hope,” London said with apparent sincerity. “There’s no longer any chance of that happening. I also came to tell you that I regret what’s about to take place. I don’t believe in unnecessary killing, or in torture, but certain things at Ramdor are outside my areas of responsibility and control.” He paused, nodded in the direction of the great wooden door. The door banged open, and two Warriors dragged a bleeding, feebly struggling, semiconscious bald man down the corridor.
“Lippitt!”
“Frederickson,” Mr. Lippitt gasped as he turned his head toward me. “You must—”
That was all he was able to say before the Warriors threw him into the black cell and the steel door crashed down from the ceiling.
“Let us talk to him!” I said to London.
Stryder London slowly shook his head.
“Why the hell not?” Garth snapped.
“Security.”
“Fuck security,” Garth said. “He’s our friend, and he’s about to be killed. You’re not an evil man; now try being a kind man. Let Mongo and me talk to him before he’s murdered.”
“I’m sorry,” London said, turning toward the door. “Goodbye.” Flanked by the other two Warriors, London walked out of the dungeon, and the door closed behind them.
“Lippitt!” I shouted. “Lippitt, can you hear me?!”
There was nothing but silence; either the black cell was sound-proofed, or Lippitt had lapsed into unconsciousness. In the Treasure Room, Siegfried Loge and his son would be waiting to cast Mr. Lippitt into Mount Doom.
“Mongo, we owe that bald-headed son-of-a-bitch,” Garth said in a low, tense voice. “Besides that, he’s our only link to whatever else is going on outside here. We don’t have any idea where London is headed; Lippitt may. I suggest we make a move.”
“Yep.”
“Where the hell is the panic button in this cell?”
Hidden under my overalls, inside my belt.
Shhh.
I slipped Whisper up between Garth’s neck and his choke collar, pulled; the blade of Damascus steel sliced through the leather and wire constraint as if it were no more than a band of silk. I cut away my own collar, threw it away into a corner, then handed the blade to Garth. “You’re better at picking locks than I am; see what you can do with the tip of this.”
Holding Whisper like a pen, Garth knelt down before the large, rusty lock and probed the keyhole with the blade’s tip. He worked at it for more than a minute, paused to wipe sweat from his brow, then went at it again.
“Uh, I don’t want to hurry you, Garth, but one could say that time is of the essence.”
Garth nodded, continued to work. I could hear Whisper grating against steel, but there was no clicking of tumblers; her blade was too wide to gain the necessary penetration.
“This isn’t going to work,” Garth said tensely, leaning back and resting on his knees.
“Garth, it has to work! Our only chance is to get to Loge before he forces Lippitt out onto the face of that rock wall! Try jamming the knife and twisting!”
“That’ll only make matters worse,” Garth said as he flipped Whisper over in his hand, handed her back to me. He slumped forward, bowed his head as if in prayer, and planted his palms flat on the floor on either side of him. He murmured, “I’m going to try something.”
“Garth …?”
“There’s an aura that precedes each seizure,” he said in a voice so low I could hardly hear him. “Just before I get hit with one, I feel like I can take off and fly; there’s a high whine in my head, and a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. If I can concentrate … try to touch those sounds and feelings … maybe I can …”
“You’re going to try and induce an attack? Garth, I don’t know. We’re in pretty close quarters here; you’re liable to kill us both.”
“You and Golly live in the house, guard it at night?”
“Yes.”
“With those big feet of yours, do you think you can sneak into Loge’s room while he’s sleeping without waking him or having Golly hear you?”
“Maybe,” Hugo said after some hesitation. “Why do you want me to do that?”
“The thing he wears around his neck all the time is a key to the room I want to show you. Bring it to Garth and me tonight, along with the keys to our cell.”
“Mongo, you remember that I warned you what could happen if this turns out to be crazy talk.”
“I’ll remember. You remember what I said about this being dangerous. Is there any way I can get you to help us get the biosamples and test results back without showing you these things?”
“No.”
“Don’t get caught, Hugo. If the nice people who run this place that you think is a friendly neighborhood clinic catch you at this, they’ll probably kill you on the spot. I’d hate to have you learn the truth the hard way, while a bullet’s ripping through your brain.”
Garth, holding a torch, led Hugo and me down the long stone corridor leading to the Treasure Room. Two floors above, according to Hugo, Siegfried and Obie Loge were sleeping, and Golly was watching “The Late, Late Show” on television while she listened to Mozart, earphones on her head; tiptoeing through the house, Garth hadn’t smelled the gorilla, and we assumed she hadn’t smelled us.
“Hey, Mongo,” Garth whispered, “I really was impressed with Loge’s magic key trick. As I recall, you have difficulty cutting a deck of cards.”
“Behold,” I said as we reached the door at the end of the corridor and I took the torch from Garth’s hand. I passed the medallion back and forth over the flame, and the four rings began to curl and twist into the shape of a key. I touched the flame to the door, and the keyhole appeared. “No trick; just a little Sorscience from that sociopathic delinquent. This is made of a substance called anitol molten alloy—it’s metal with a memory. The area of the keyhole is the same thing. The molecules will return to the same configuration they were in when the metal was shaped at a certain temperature. This anitol was formed into the shape of a key when it was heated to flame-temperature, then twisted into the rings after it had cooled. Heat it, and it goes back to its original shape. It’s used in the newer thermostats and thermocouplings.”
I twisted the key in the lock and pushed open the door. The sound and light show began. Hugo, who’d looked rather dazed when we’d entered the corridor and lit the torches, looked even more dazed as he roughly pushed between Garth and me, ducked through the doorway and entered the Treasure Room. Garth and I followed.
We let the giant browse around for a couple of minutes, and then Garth went to the control panel and dimmed the lights. The photo-mural disappeared, and Hugo’s gasp was audible. He stumbled slightly as he went across the room and stood before the clear Plexiglas shield, staring out over Mount Doom.
“Those are human bones over there,” Hugo whispered hoarsely as Garth and I came over and joined him.
“As advertised, Hugo,” I said.
“Don’t bother asking what those flying things are,” Garth said drily as two of the leathery flappers swooped across our field of vision. “Nobody seems to know. Now we’ll show you—”
“You won’t show anything to anybody,” Siegfried Loge said.
Pfft.
Pfft.
I reached for the dart in my left shoulder, never got my arm up; a powerful, fast-acting paralytic had almost instantly erased all sensation in my body, and nothing worked. I started to collapse, was grabbed under the arms and turned around by a burly Warrior. Garth, in the same condition and supported by another Warrior, found himself helpless and unable to do anything more than stare at the Loges, Golly, and a third Warrior who were standing by the entrance.
Golly must have grown bored with “The Late, Late Show.”
Siegfried Loge lowered his dart gun, and the third Warrior slowly advanced across the room, his machine pistol aimed directly at the center of Hugo’s forehead. Golly followed and, looking about as shamefaced as a gorilla is ever likely to look, took the control boxes from the giant’s hand. Hugo, the bore of the gun pressed against his spine, was ushered out of the Treasure Room, and Garth and I were turned around again to look out over the chasm of Mount Doom.
“I figured I’d use synthetic curare instead of PCP in the darts this time,” Siegfried Loge said as he and his son came over to stand beside us at the shield. “I didn’t want to let you do anything to get yourselves killed, but I didn’t want you to sleep through this show.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Golly growing increasingly agitated.
PLEASE NO KILL FUCKING HUGO
PLEASE NO KILL FUCKING HUGO
“Obie, turn on the monitor and bring me the microphone.”
The younger Loge, still in his bathrobe and slippers and looking rather sleep-eyed, flopped across the room and turned on one of the television monitors; it showed the inside of the black cell. He took a hand microphone on a long extension cable out of a small recess, brought it back to his father.
A few moments later the monitor showed Hugo being shoved into the black cell. A door slammed down out of the ceiling, trapping him. The giant shaded his eyes and squinted into the floodlight and television camera, which were on a level with his head.
“Take the torch off the wall, Hugo,” Loge said into the microphone. “It will light automatically when you take it out of the bracket.”
Hugo pulled the torch out of the bracket, and it instantly burst into flame. Loge pressed a button on the side of the microphone; across the chasm, at the apex of the three sets of steps, a door opened in the rock. I could see Hugo in the opening, and he was shielding his face with one hand as his long hair whipped around his head. It was very hot in the chasm, with a lot of swirling air currents.
“Ohhhh … ahhhhh … my … faawwlt. Doohhnt … kill … him.”
Loge ignored my rather pathetic, probably unintelligible, attempt at speech.
“The door behind you won’t open again, Hugo,” the scientist said. “You can wait there until you rot, or you can take your chances in Mount Doom. Choose a set of steps, try to make it to one of the caves. Who knows? You might be the first one to find your way out of there. Lots of luck, you oversize idiot.”
Loge grunted and draped the microphone cord around his neck as Hugo, his torch held aloft and his body bathed in a red glow, stepped through the opening. He chose the middle set of steps, which appeared to be the widest.
He’d gone about twenty yards before the flying things hit him.
Hugo draped one arm over his head and flailed blindly with his torch, but the brown things kept drooping clumsily but accurately from the darkness above; they bit at him with their teeth, pounded his body with the appendages that served as wings, swarmed over him like huge, murderous bats. His clothes torn and bloody, Hugo staggered to the edge of a step, slipped, and fell out of sight toward the furnace glow below.
The curare hadn’t paralyzed my tear glands.
28.
Stunned by the death of Hugo, racked by guilt, I sat in a corner of our dungeon cell and mourned in silence. Garth understood and left me alone.
After dinner we had a visitor—Stryder London. The head of Siegmund Loge’s private army was out of uniform; he wore a pin-striped suit under a camel’s hair topcoat—they were his traveling clothes, I decided, his “real people” disguise. In each hand he carried a cylindrical metal canister.
“What the fuck do you want?” Garth growled.
“I came to say good-bye,” the man with the close-cropped hair and hard eyes replied evenly. “You both have great courage. I have considerable respect for the Frederickson brothers, and I’m sorry things are the way they are.”
“That’s touching, London.” Garth turned to me. “Mongo, don’t be rude. Come on over here and say bye-bye to the nice man.”
I got to my feet, walked to the front of the cell. I pointed to the canisters. “You’ve got Garth and me in there, right?”
“Yes,” London answered simply.
“You’re taking the biosamples to Siegmund Loge.”
London did not reply.
“Where is he, London? Where does Siegmund Loge hang out?” When he remained silent, I shook my head impatiently. “For Christ’s sake, London, Garth and I are probably going to be dead soon. What difference does it make what you tell us?”
“It makes a difference to me. It’s a matter of security which is unrelated to the question of your survival.”
“You’re a pisser, London—as well as a traitor.”
Stryder London stiffened. “Does it make you feel better to insult me, Frederickson? I’m not responsible for what’s happened to you.”
“You work for the people who are responsible. It makes me feel better to state the truth when everybody else is telling lies, even to themselves. There are no good Nazis; it’s not enough to say that you’re following orders.”
“I am following orders, but I’m following them because I choose to. I take full responsibility for my actions.”
“You choose to work for these homicidal maniacs? You want to take responsibility for what goes on in Ramdor?”
“My responsibility is to Siegmund Loge, and his goals may be different from what you think they are. You shouldn’t take anything anybody around here says too seriously. They’re unbalanced, as I’m sure you’ve noticed.”
That got a hoot of laughter from Garth and me.
“I knew it!” Garth said. “They are making cheesecake!”
London frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Forget it,” Garth said with a derisive gesture of dismissal.
“What are Siegmund Loge’s goals?” I asked.
Silence.
“It doesn’t make any difference, London. You’re still a traitor.”
“You’re wrong, Frederickson,” the Warrior said in a low voice that trembled just slightly. “If I were free to tell you certain things, you’d understand—and might even approve of what Siegmund Loge will accomplish. It’s for the good of America—the America we used to know, and the America that will exist once again.”
“Oh, yeah; that good old America—the one that sneaks up on its enemies and turns them all—man, woman, and child—into monsters.”
London shook his head. “No. That’s not what Project Valhalla is about.”
“Your security has already been breached, London. The demented delinquent upstairs—the one with the baseball cap—already admitted as much to us.”
“Dr. Siegfried Loge is a brilliant scientist, Frederickson; the work at Ramdor must be done, no matter how unattractive it may appear to you. However, Dr. Loge often has difficulty separating reality from his own personal fantasies. When it comes to his father’s ultimate goals, he doesn’t know what’s he’s talking about.”
“Huh?”
“There will be no monsters created—except for the two of you, and that was an accident; a fortuitous accident, but still an accident.”
“Accident, bullshit. Jake Bolesh was plugged into the command network of Project Valhalla, just as you are.”
“You purposely miss my point, Frederickson. What Siegmund Loge is doing is for the benefit of all mankind.”
“You and Hugo must have hit it off real good.”
“Order, Frederickson,” Stryder London said quietly. “That’s what the Valhalla Project is about.”
The statement wafted about in the dungeon air, went in one of my ears and out the other, then came back in and squatted; it was cold. “Genetic control of behavior,” I said.
“Yes,” London said evenly. “Everything that’s been done, and is being done, is part of a search for the specific genes that control behavior.”
“You may be hunting a ghost. How can you put a net around what makes us individuals?”
“No, Frederickson; the hunt is for those genes which bind us to the group and which compel us to work for the common good under the command of leaders.”
“What leaders?”
“Those men who are fit to lead.”
“I note that you don’t say ‘elected’ to lead.”
“Don’t play that silly patriotic game with me, Frederickson; we’re both too sophisticated. Democracy is a farce. You’re a criminologist, and you know it’s a farce. Only fools, phonies, or idiots ever go into politics, and so only fools, phonies, or idiots are ever elected to office. Our society falls apart, and thus the world falls apart.”
“Because our society should lead the world?”
“Of course. I’m a man of peace, Frederickson, and soon we will have peace; we’ll have peace because we’ll have order.”
“Because everyone will do what the government tells them to do.”
“Yes. The entire world will be a place of peace and order.”
“Under the control of Siegmund Loge, your fuehrer.”
“Under the control of Siegmund Loge, my leader, and the one man best suited to bring our species back from the brink of destruction where it finds itself.”
“Is there a religious angle to any of this?”
“Not really. In an ordered, peaceful society free of stress and delusion, all men will naturally gravitate toward Christ, since Christ is God’s Son, and mankind’s Savior. However, Jesus taught us that it is right to render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s, and unto God what is God’s. We are Caesar; with us in command, Christianity will naturally flourish.”
“I think I prefer the version Father feeds his flock,” Garth said drily. “It has more meat to it.”
“He’s getting ready to experiment on those people, isn’t he, London?” I asked.
The Warrior shrugged. “Eventually, yes. Since some initial experimentation will be needed, who better to use than those who will submit joyfully?”
“He already controls their behavior.”
London smiled thinly. “You’d be surprised how many different types of communes there are, Dr. Frederickson.”
“Nothing about any of you people or Project Valhalla would surprise me anymore. On the other hand, there may be a surprise in store for you.”
“What would that be?”
“You keep forgetting Mr. Lippitt. I’m betting our old man blows away your old man, and that’ll be all she wrote on Project Valhalla.”
“I’m sorry to take away your last hope,” London said with apparent sincerity. “There’s no longer any chance of that happening. I also came to tell you that I regret what’s about to take place. I don’t believe in unnecessary killing, or in torture, but certain things at Ramdor are outside my areas of responsibility and control.” He paused, nodded in the direction of the great wooden door. The door banged open, and two Warriors dragged a bleeding, feebly struggling, semiconscious bald man down the corridor.
“Lippitt!”
“Frederickson,” Mr. Lippitt gasped as he turned his head toward me. “You must—”
That was all he was able to say before the Warriors threw him into the black cell and the steel door crashed down from the ceiling.
“Let us talk to him!” I said to London.
Stryder London slowly shook his head.
“Why the hell not?” Garth snapped.
“Security.”
“Fuck security,” Garth said. “He’s our friend, and he’s about to be killed. You’re not an evil man; now try being a kind man. Let Mongo and me talk to him before he’s murdered.”
“I’m sorry,” London said, turning toward the door. “Goodbye.” Flanked by the other two Warriors, London walked out of the dungeon, and the door closed behind them.
“Lippitt!” I shouted. “Lippitt, can you hear me?!”
There was nothing but silence; either the black cell was sound-proofed, or Lippitt had lapsed into unconsciousness. In the Treasure Room, Siegfried Loge and his son would be waiting to cast Mr. Lippitt into Mount Doom.
“Mongo, we owe that bald-headed son-of-a-bitch,” Garth said in a low, tense voice. “Besides that, he’s our only link to whatever else is going on outside here. We don’t have any idea where London is headed; Lippitt may. I suggest we make a move.”
“Yep.”
“Where the hell is the panic button in this cell?”
Hidden under my overalls, inside my belt.
Shhh.
I slipped Whisper up between Garth’s neck and his choke collar, pulled; the blade of Damascus steel sliced through the leather and wire constraint as if it were no more than a band of silk. I cut away my own collar, threw it away into a corner, then handed the blade to Garth. “You’re better at picking locks than I am; see what you can do with the tip of this.”
Holding Whisper like a pen, Garth knelt down before the large, rusty lock and probed the keyhole with the blade’s tip. He worked at it for more than a minute, paused to wipe sweat from his brow, then went at it again.
“Uh, I don’t want to hurry you, Garth, but one could say that time is of the essence.”
Garth nodded, continued to work. I could hear Whisper grating against steel, but there was no clicking of tumblers; her blade was too wide to gain the necessary penetration.
“This isn’t going to work,” Garth said tensely, leaning back and resting on his knees.
“Garth, it has to work! Our only chance is to get to Loge before he forces Lippitt out onto the face of that rock wall! Try jamming the knife and twisting!”
“That’ll only make matters worse,” Garth said as he flipped Whisper over in his hand, handed her back to me. He slumped forward, bowed his head as if in prayer, and planted his palms flat on the floor on either side of him. He murmured, “I’m going to try something.”
“Garth …?”
“There’s an aura that precedes each seizure,” he said in a voice so low I could hardly hear him. “Just before I get hit with one, I feel like I can take off and fly; there’s a high whine in my head, and a cold feeling in the pit of my stomach. If I can concentrate … try to touch those sounds and feelings … maybe I can …”
“You’re going to try and induce an attack? Garth, I don’t know. We’re in pretty close quarters here; you’re liable to kill us both.”
