The Future Makers (v1.0), page 12
With the meal, Tyne’s spirits rose. He had ceased to be a second secretary to an under-secretary of the Under-Secretary because he wanted action. Here it came. The original instinct that had led him to Sumatra had been sound. He had been static, stale, discontented, a man without manhood, set on a career of his father’s choosing that bored him thoroughly. His chief task had been minute passing; how suitable that that should be a synonym for time wasting!
But the equator is the hottest bit of the planet, the bit that goes round fastest, though that is not apparent to the senses. Now something was really starting to spin.
On his way out, he ran into the proprietor, and asked for Murray.
“Sorry, I don’t see him today,” Mr. Niap Nam said. “If he come, I don’t see him. Now it is best you to leave by the back way. In front is having little trouble from the Displaced. Maybe shooting from these foolish men.”
“Thanks, Niap,” Tyne said. He had heard the noise in the street but had taken no notice of it. In a moment, one shot was fired, the shouting rose to a crescendo, then came the sound of people running. Tyne slipped out the back way, through a courtyard under the cassia tree. The Displaced were a group of terrorists, largely formed from natives whose kampongs had been evacuated to make room for the Rosk base; their daily acts of violence—often the sticky-bombing of diplomats* limousines—added an additional spice of risk to life in Padang.
Tyne headed for the Roxy. If anyone knew where Murray was, it should be Mina, the little half-Dutch girl (her other half remained unspecified) who occupied most of Murray’s spare time. Tyne looked at his watch. It was just after noon; his enemy, for already that was how he thought of Murray, had as much as four and a half hours* start The Roxy was an all-day cinema. Now the boom was on, the solids flickered in the big perspex cube for twenty-four hours out of the twenty-four. The foyer was large, deep, lush, with people coming and going, or just standing smoking.
On the ice cream counter, Mina squeaked with pleasure at the sight of Tyne. Yes, she was nice: dark, lively, animated; perhaps after Murray was out of the way…
“Yes, he came to see me here,” Mina said, in answer to Tyne’s question. “Is he in some sort of trouble, Mr. Leslie, can you tell me? He had a look as if something is striking him not so funny.”
“Perhaps he had his shoes on the wrong feet,” Tyne said, and then waited patiently for the girl to control her shrieking laughter. He had forgotten how the silliest remark set her going.
“I’ve got to find him, Mina,” he said. “The Commander wants him urgently. Did he say where he was going?”
“No, Mr. Leslie. All he say is not even ‘give a kiss,’ but just ‘hello’. That is why I think perhaps something is striking him not—”
“Yes, not so funny. I know. What else did he say besides ‘hello,’ Mina? Did he ask you to meet him later?”
“Excuse a minute.” She turned, all smiles, to serve a tall Pakistani, and then continued, “All he say to me is that he goes to the plankton plant. I can find him at the plankton plant. What for he wants to go to that place for, Mr. Leslie?”
“Perhaps to plant plankton,” Tyne suggested, turning away unsmiling as she doubled up again with flutey laughter. What the devil would Murray be going out there for? Walking blindly, he almost bumped into a fat man in a white linen suit “Follow me to hear about Murray Mumford,” the fat man said; speaking from the corner of his mouth and appearing to take no notice of Tyne. As Tyne stared after him in surprise, the fat man pushed through a swing door into one of the adjoining bars. For a moment, Tyne wondered if he had heard all right. Then he shouldered his way through the door.
A miniature solid a foot high fluttered on the bar counter. It was silent. Piped from the full-size cinema solid, it showed only half the original. As such, it was almost unintelligible: but its job was to lure barflies inside to see what the original was about. At present, the breasty half of Lulu Baltazar reclined on pillows gesturing meaninglessly.
Tyne flicked his gaze from the cube to the fat man. The fat man was sitting in the far corner with his face to the door, raising two plump fingers to the waiter. The waiter was nodding and smiling like an unctuous fool. Several people sat about, drinking.
“Who are you?” Tyne asked the fat man, on reaching his table. “Sorry, but I don’t remember you.”
“Sit down Mr. Leslie,” the stranger said. “Remember your manners and thank your lucky stars I found you before anyone else did.”
“Who are you, I asked?” Tyne said, sitting down. “Have you a message for me from Murray?”
“Here come the whiskies,” the other said, smiling as the waiter set the glasses down. “Let me drink to your continued health.”
Tyne pushed his away.
“I’m in a hurry,” he said. “How do you know I am after Murray? I suppose you overheard what I said to the ice cream kiosk girl? Are you trying to be funny or helpful?”
The fat man downed his drink and then, looking quizzically at Tyne, usurped the one Tyne had pushed away. Without troubling to answer any of Tyne’s questions, he said, “If you want to call me anything, Stobart is as good a name as any. I’m a U.N.C. agent. I can arrest you by flicking my fingers, should I feel like it.”
A bit—a very nice bit—of Lulu Baltazar was climbing into a dynocar. The waiter was smiling and nodding like a fool to new patrons.
“You talk as if you’ve just popped out of a cloak-and-dagger solid,” Tyne said.
“Don’t reveal your genteel background, son,” Stobart said curtly. “I’m real enough, as you’ll find out if you start playing tough. And remember—I’ve got no sense of humour.”
“All right. You’re real,” Tyne conceded. “Then tell me this. Why should a U.N.C. agent reveal himself as you have done? Why should he be interested in me, or in Mumford? If you were a thick-eared M.P. from camp, I could understand it”
“You couldn’t understand a thick-eared hatstand. Look, son, you are dabbling on the edge of deep waters. Stay out That’s all I’m here to tell you; stay out! The finding of Murray Mumford is top priority, and you’ll only be in the way of several interested parties.”
As he spoke, he slid the whisky back to Tyne, who took it and drank it. Stobart raised two fingers in the air, and the waiter doubled over, curtseying, with more drink.
“Let me in on the mystery,” Tyne said. He disliked the note of pleading he heard in his own voice. “Why did Murray kill Alan Cunliffe? Why are the U.N.C. and not the police or the Space Service after him?”
“You’re inquisitive,” Stobart said stonily.
Tyne went red in the face. He took one of the empty glasses in his left hand and squeezed. He went on squeezing till a little pile of glittering fragments lay on the table.
“Answer my questions,” he said.
Stobart laughed. “You’ve got a temper,” he said, and blew the powdered glass over Tyne’s jacket. Before Tyne could move, the other had grasped his left wrist in an unshakable grip.
“Listen to me, Mr. Leslie,” Stobart said. “Stay out of this. Mumford lied to you, I don’t doubt He wouldn’t let you see how big this thing was. I want to hear what he told you happened outside Area 101; then I’ll tell you what really happened. Fair enough?”
Sullenly, Tyne repeated the story Murray had told him on the scout ship.
“Hogwash,” Stobart exclaimed at the end of it. “While you were out cold on the moon, the Rosks caught you and Mumford. He had no time to get back into the ship, man, not with you sleeping peacefully on his shoulder. They caught him as easy as kiss your hand, and persuaded him to carry vital information down here, to a Rosk contact in Padang who will pass it to the Rosk Sumatra base.”
“How could they persuade him? What was the information? Why couldn’t he have told me the truth?”
“You innocent fool!” Stobart said. He had stopped looking at Tyne now, as if he had lost interest in him; his watery eyes slid round the other customers in the bar. “Do you think Mumford would tell anyone the truth? He has turned traitor! He’s helping the Rosks; don’t bother to ask me what they offered him for the job. And don’t bother to ask me what the information is; if I knew I shouldn’t tell you.”
“I can’t believe it! Why couldn’t the Rosks carry the information themselves? They’ve got four small ships plying between Earth and Luna.”
“If we knew all the answers, we’d not be looking for Mumford now,” Stobart said tersely. “And that’s all I’ve got to say to you. On your way, Leslie, blow. Go back to camp and play spacemen before the shooting starts.”
“You’re drunk, from the way you talk and look,” Tyne said quietly. “Or does your mouth always hang down like an old red sock?”
“There’s a Rosk sitting up at the bar disguised as a Sumatran business man, watching us like a hawk,” Stobart replied, without batting an eyelid.
“I’m from Neptune,” Tyne said. “How did you get hold of all this information, Stobart?”
The fat man swore at him. “Think I’d tell you? For the last time, get, Tyne. You’re up against organizations. You’ll never find Murray Mumford. Go on, on your feet, beat it! The free whisky is finished.”
A bit of someone was wrestling with a bit of Lula Baltazar as Tyne passed the bar. He boiled inside. His face burned. He hated every cubic inch of lard in Stobart’s body, but his intelligence told him the man’s advice was sound. If Murray was really involved in trouble so deeply, the affair had passed out of Tyne’s hands.
Avoiding Mina’s eye, he strode out onto the Roxy’s steps. It was raining heavily. The streets ran with water. Further up the street, two miserable policemen stood beside a smoking Russian Pudenta; the Displaced had struck again. The time was 1 15.
Inside the cinema, Stobart watched with satisfaction as the Rosk agent slid from the bar and left, almost directly after Tyne Leslie. Stobart liked his job. As long as you stayed in control it was as comfortable as an old armchair. With the right psychological push, anyone could be induced to do anything. Even a random factor like Mr. Tyne Leslie.
III
Tyne decided to cut through the side streets. He might dodge most of the rain that way. The sooner he got back to base, the better; there would be trouble awaiting him for failing to report in from a completed mission. He felt full of defeat. He bad even forgotten to ask that slob Stobart about Allan Rain pelted down his neck. His light tropical suit would be soaked in no time. A taxi slowly overtook him, splashing his legs.
“Jump in for a good ride, sir,” the Chinese driver called cheerfully.
It was a sound idea. As Tyne bent to c pen the back door, it was flung wide. Strong hands grasped his hand, catching him off balance, pulling him into the car He felt it gather speed even as he struggled under a heavy rug which was thrown over him. Someone was lying on top of him, pinning him down. Tyne fought to get his steel hand free. Then a blow caught him on the nape of his neck.
For what seemed like an eternity, he lay half-suffocating under the rug, in a drifting state between consciousness and unconsciousness. Lurid colours curled and coiled in his head. When the car began to bump, as if it had left the road, he took an intelligent interest in the world again. An odd hissing noise rose outside; they were driving through long grass.
The occupant of the back of the car had climbed off Tyne now, and was arguing with the driver. It was something about damage to the machine. Money was offered, the driver was refusing it At length the car stopped. Tyne did not struggle as his wrists were lashed behind his back. The hands that touched his felt feverishly hot Undoubtedly their temperature was 105.1 degrees.
He was hauled unceremoniously out of the car by his shoulders, rolling over in knee-deep, wet grass. As he struggled to his knees, and then to his feet, he saw the Chinese driver accept a wad of dollars, grin and rev the engine. The Rosk took Tyne by the belt of his pants, pulling him out of the way as the car backed round and shot back up the track in the direction it had come from. It disappeared; man and Rosk were alone.
Tall trees, secondary growth rather than true jungle, surrounded them. The only sign of human existence was an old native hut sagging under its own weight, although in the distance came the regular sound of traffic; a highway not too far off.
“Let’s walk, shall we?” the Rosk said, pleasantly, pushing Tyne ahead.
“If you’ve nothing better to offer.”
It was still raining, but without passion, as they started down the track. Tyne had hardly managed to get a glimpse of his assailant. He looked like a Malayan. How ironic, Tyne thought, that this race should have set itself up in Sumatra! They could pass anywhere here unnoticed. In England, they would stand out a mile.
“Fond of the country?” Tyne asked.
“Keep walking.”
The track grew worse. The rain stopped as if a celestial tap had been turned off. The sun came out; Tyne steamed. Through the trees, the ocean appeared. It lay there flat as failure, stagnant and brassy.
The cliffs were steep here, deep water coming in close. Together, Tyne and his captor slithered down a perilous slope. At the bottom, three great palms fought motionlessly for position on a minute ledge, their stony trunks canting over the water. Down below the surface, their roots extended like drowned fingers; Tyne could see fish among the fingers. Then, without warning, he was pushed off the ledge.
He went down among the roots, the water burning up his nose. He struggled frantically. He was drowning! With his hands tied, he was helpless.
There was hardly time to think. The Rosk was swimming beside him, tugging his collar. In no time, they slid into darker water under the cliff, and surfaced. Water streaming from his mouth and clothes, Tyne gasped painfully, floundering up up rough steps as the Rosk dragged him out.
They were in a cavern, the mouth of which would be hardly visible even from the sea, thanks to the big palms outside. Conditions were claustrophobic in the extreme. The water came within two-foot-six of the slimy roof; there was no chance of climbing out of the water—one just stood chest-deep in it. Bitterly, Tyne remembered that the Rosks had strong aquatic traditions.
In the middle of the cavern, in deeper water, floated a small submarine. It looked battered and* ancient, and was streaked with rust. It might have been a veteran from the Malayan Navy, but Tyne could not certainly identify it.
The conning tower was open. A dark head now appeared, exchanging a few barked words with Tyne’s captor. Without delay, he was prodded aboard.
Inside, it was like crawling round an oven, both as regards heat and size. Tyne was made to lie on the bare steel lattice of a bunk, his hands still tied behind his back. When the sub began to move, the motion was barely perceptible.
Shutting his eyes, he tried to think. No thought came. He only knew that the repulsive Stobart’s warning had been well founded but too late. He only knew that he coveted the life of a second secretary to an under-secretary of the Undersecretary.
“Up again now,” the Rosk said, prodding his ribs.
They had arrived.
Pushed and goaded from behind, Tyne climbed the steel ladder and thrust his head into daylight.
The sub had surfaced out to sea. No land was visible, owing to haze which hung like a steam over the smooth water. A native, low-draught sailing ketch floated beside them, a mooring line from it already secured to the sub’s rail. Three presumed Rosks showed predatory interest when Tyne appeared. Reaching over, they took him by the armpits and hauled him aboard, to dump him, dripping, on deck.
“Thanks,” Tyne snapped. “And how about a towel, while you’re feeling helpful?”
When his first captor had climbed aboard, he was urged down a companionway, still dripping. Below decks, structural alterations had created one good-sized room. The ketch was perhaps a hundred-tonner. Evidence suggested it had been used as a passenger boat, probably to nearby islands, before it passed into Rosk hands.
Five male Rosks and a woman were down here. They were dressed in Rosk style, with an abundance of oily-looking cloth over them that seemed highly out of place on the equator. Relaxed here, among their own people, the foreignness of them became more apparent Their mouths, perhaps by the quick, clattering language they spoke, were moulded into an odd expression. Their gestures looked unnatural. Even in the way they sat on the plain wooden chairs was a hint that they found the artifacts alien, out of harmony.
These were beings from Alpha Centauri II, beings like men, but inevitably always estranged from man. The physical similarity seemed merely to mark the spiritual difference. As though life on Earth, Tyne thought, wasn’t complicated enough without this…
The Rosk who had captured Tyne in Padang was delivering a report, in Roskian, to the leader of the group, a coarse-looking individual with nostrils like a gorilla’s and a shock of white hair. He interrogated Tyne’s captor at length, searchingly, but in a manner that suggested he was pleased with the man, before turning to address Tyne in English.
“So now. I am War-Colonel Budo Budda, servant of the Supreme Ap II Dowl, Dictator of Alpha-Earth. We need information quickly from you and shall use any means to extract it What are you called?”
“My name is Pandit Nehru,” Tyne said, unblinkingly.
“Put him on the table,” Budda said.
Moving in unison, the other Rosks seized Tyne and laid him, despite his struggles, heavily on his back in the middle of the table.
“Pandit Nehru was a figure in your history,” Budda said, impatiently. “Try again.”
“Martin Todpuddle,” Tyne said, wondering just what they did or did not know about him.
Evidently they did not know his name.
“You were talking to a U.N.C. agent,” Budda said, “at half past twelve by your local time, in the Roxy Cinema, Pa-dang. What were you talking about?”
“He was telling me I should change my socks more often.”
A terrific side-swipe caught Tyne on his right ear. The world exploded into starlit noise. He had forgotten how unpleasant pain could be; when he reclaimed enough of his head to render hearing partly possible again, a lot of his cockiness had evaporated.
