Assignment Unicorn (20 page)

“According to your lights, perhaps. You replace freedom with
a police state, run by supermen thugs, and bind the people in iron chains, is
that it?”

“Lawlessness, terror, anarchy, the destruction of man’s
social arrangements that permit him to live in peace and safety with his
fellowmen, must come to an end if we are to survive.” MacLeod’s breath came a
little faster. His eyes were more than angry now. A gleam of fanaticism touched
them. “I will not bore you with a recitation of my own personal injuries suffered
by the contemptuous attitude of corporate conglomerates in the course of my work
as a biochemist. The insults, not only to my physical handicaps, but to my
integrity as a professional researcher, were like stones striking me from every
direction, all my life. So I decided that terror must end, and only force of a
new kind could prevail against today‘s international, personal and private
anarchies.”

“So you merely impose a new terror on the world,” Durell
said quietly.

MacLeod’s right hand clenched, then slowly relaxed. “Do not
goad me. Your life depends upon my good will."

“Just as everyone will depend on you, all over the world, is
that it? Do you honestly believe that two wrongs will make things right?”

“A new police mechanism, an indestructible super-agency,
dedicated to virtue, as the mythological unicorn was dedicated to peace and
justice, is the only way. The only rational means to restore order and harmony
to the world. The only path to follow, if man is to survive side by side with
his fellowman, and not cower III terror when night falls and live behind locked
gates as man did in medieval times.”

“Your supermen,” Durell said.

“An elite force, strategically placed to cope with
lawlessness.” MacLeod looked up sharply. “You have heard of the projected
conference, ICSOPP, to be held on Mattatuck Island. Security chiefs from
certain selected nations will be there. They are willing to bargain for my drug
to create elite, indestructible forces of dedicated men whom nothing can stop.
They are willing to pay vast sums. We intend to see that your President is
properly impressed. We need your cooperation.”

Durell sat at his end of the table, his mind seething. He
did not believe what he’d been told. He refused to accept it. He looked
confused, angry. Would they dare to threaten the President of the United
States?

The grotesque little man stood before him.

“And now we come to the drug itself, the mainspring of the
entire operation.”

“Yes?”

“Have you wondered about your diet recently?”

“The oatmeal? Yes.”

“You have ingested enough of it by now, I should think.
Small doses, the first days. Carefully increased amounts later. You are
one of mine, now, Mr. Durell. You belong to me. Have you not questioned your
recent capacities? Your ability to jump up and reach the window ledge of your
cell? Your feelings of well-being, despite a restricted, stingy, and monotonous
diet? Yes, you are mine, Mr. Durell. Body and soul.”

Durell reached under the heavy table, with its two-inch
planking, and lifted it. Belts attached the legs to the stone floor. They
came loose with ripping, popping sounds. The table heaved upward, toward Dr.
MacLeod’s strange figure. It felt light and flimsy in his grip. He
lifted the table bodily to hurl it at the biochemist. He felt wonderful. He
could do anything. Nothing could stop him.

Then the guards closed in. From the corner of his eye, he
saw the butt of the descending rifle. He felt no pain. But his knees
buckled. He went down, struggling. There were more blows to his head. He tried
to get up again. The table fell backward on his legs with a crash. He did not
feel it. But suddenly the lights went out.

39

HE HEARD the voice from a far distance, through a grayish
haze.

“ . . . very foolish of you, Mr. Durell. But your reaction
is understandable . . . resent what I have done to you, naturally . . . but
cooperation will be in the best interests of all. Can you hear me now? I have
something of utmost importance to tell you. Are you listening?”

“Yes,” Durell said.

“Open your eyes.”

“They are open.”

“You cannot see clearly?”

“Not yet.”

He made out the dim moon face of Dr. Alexander MacLeod. Not
quite as jolly as before.

“Have you any pain, Mr. Durell?”

“No.”

“Very good. You have been unconscious for twenty-four hours,
unfortunately for both of us. Do you believe now that the drug is in you?”

“Yes.”

“You researched possibilities for my drug, did you not?”

“Yes.”

“The idea of possessing
superstrength
intrigues you?”

“Yes.”

“There is one flaw in the drug, Mr. Durell.”

“Yes?”

“You observed one of my men who was captured in Palingpon.
He was dying, was he not?”

“Yes.”

“Of exhaustion?”

“It seemed so.”

“It is an unfortunate by-product of the drug. It requires
continued ingestion. Failure to continue the procedure results in death. The
organism is worn out, overextended. The heart sometimes bursts. The aorta
ruptures. Bones break without the subject realizing it. Only further
replenishment will save the subject. Are you aware now of how I own you?
Without me, you will surely die. You need me now, Mr. Durell. Just as all my men
need me. It is unfortunate that the drug is not perfect. But its imperfection
serves a purpose.”

“I suppose so.”

“Get up, Mr. Durell.”

Durell got up.

40

DURELL judged it was nearly noon, from the position of the
sun low on the southern horizon. Some years ago, he had hiked through Scotland
and visited the Orkney Islands, and he recognized the green, low—lying islands
now, from where he stood with a group of gray
Jumpsuited
men in a low field between the rolling green hills. The field had the
appearance of a school athletic event. There were at least a score of the men
in jumpsuits, silent and dour as the land. The obstacle course was laid out
within the perimeter of a high wooden fence. There were barricades, ditches, a
brook to hurdle, and finally the facsimile of a house facade that reached
up two stories, complete with doors, windows, and an overhanging roof eave that
looked impossible to overcome.

Durell had been given a crisply laundered gray Jumpsuit and
heavy sneakers after his usual breakfast of porridge. He ate with reluctance
under the watchful eyes of his armed guards.

This time they deigned to talk to him.

“Welcome to the club,” one of them said.

He was a thin, wiry little man named Marcus. Durell said,
“How long have you been here?”

“Five months, man.”

“Have you been on any of the expeditions?”

“I was in Geneva. Saw you there. But you weren’t on our
target list then.”

“You don’t get bored here on the island?”

“The pay is good, fella. And you feel good, besides. We
won’t be stationed here forever.”

“You get a shot every day?”

“We eat the stuff, like. Three times a week. Otherwise . . .
” Marcus’s ratty face grimaced. “Well, the Old Man explained it all to you, I
hear. That’s why we’re at liberty to talk to you.”

“What you do, doesn’t it bother you?”

“I told you,” Marcus said impatiently, “the pay is good. The
future’s even better. Straight gold, fantastic.”

He paused. “Once we make the final hit, it’s gravy all
the way.”

Marcus’s companion said, “Shut up, big mouth. He ain’t
cleared that much.”

Durell said, “But your lives really depend on getting the
drug regularly?”

“So what?” Marcus shrugged. “The doc takes good care of us.
He’s been good to us. Picked me up out of a slum in Zaire, where I was
underground from the local fuzz. Joey, here, he was wanted by Interpol for a
few little items. Most of the crew are just plain mercenaries, though. You
ready for field day?”

“I’m ready,” Durell said.

The jumpsuit was warm, insulating him against the bite of
the Atlantic wind. He was directed to join the other unicorns, none of whom
bothered to talk to him. Dr. MacLeod sat with his two armed guards at a small distance
from the group. He was seated in a camp chair on a high wooden platform where
he could oversee the training field. His tiny legs dangled from the
chair, not quite touching the plank floor of the platform.

One of the armed guards blew a whistle and the men lined up.
Their faces were a variety collected from all over the world, it seemed. Two
Chinese, four Japanese, two tall, rangy blacks, the others of various sizes and
coloring, some Mediterranean, some Nordic, all of them with that indelible
stamp of rugged men who had lived hard lives and enjoyed danger. They seemed
eager to perform.

Durell shrugged his shoulders, flexed his muscles.

The first man started at another signal from the whistle.
A shrill blast, and he was off, running in a zigzag course for the first
wooden barrier. It was a typical military training course, except that every
hurdle, every barrier was higher and wider than any Durell had ever seen.

The man scaled the first ten-foot barricade like a cat,
dropped to the other side, gathered speed like a sprint runner, hurdled a
ten-foot ditch, landed easily, kept running on a long, looping footpath. His
pace was dazzling. His teeth gleamed in a grin. He snatched up a coil of rope
on a wooden stand along the
racepath
. It had a grapnel
attached to it. Without slackening, the man leaped two more hurdles, then
approached the framed facade of the house. The grapnel swung in a high, accurate
loop, caught on the overhanging eave, came taut with a single tug, and the man
went up hand over hand with no apparent effort, his feet gripping door and window
frames, and the final height, without any toeholds, simply by pulling
himself up with the strength of his shoulders. He vanished over the top of the
false-front building, landed by jumping down the other side, rolled over twice,
and then raced around the field beside the outer perimeter fence. The
speed of his long, pumping stride was enormous. At the end, in front of Dr.
MacLeod’s reviewing stand, he halted, breathing lightly, only a slight dew of perspiration
on his rugged face.

At last Durell’s turn came.

As he ran, he felt as if his feet scarcely touched the ground.
He was exhilarated, amazed at the way he covered the distance to the
first high barrier. It loomed impossibly before him. He felt the wind
rush by him. He gauged the distance, gathered himself, leaped for the top of
the wooden fence. He didn’t think he would make it. He misjudged it, came up
too high, fumbled his grip on the top, scraped skin from his forearm, and
dropped down on the other side like a feather. He rolled over twice, going
forward, scarcely felt the sharp cuts from stones in the tall grass, gathered
his legs under him, and raced for the ditch ahead.

Now he began to feel it, the power in his muscles, the
spring in his feet, an ineffable sense of being able to accomplish the
impossible. He took the ditch with a long leap, thrusting his feet ahead of him
to land in the earth churned up by those who had gone ahead of him. He did not
feel the jolt of his landing. There was a grace in him, a coordination, a
perception that keenly attuned mind and muscle, nerve and heart.

He took the next barrier, which was higher than the first,
almost casually, not thinking about it. Everything chimed in him. There was a
long sprint to the next area, where he had to crawl under barbed wire for about
fifty feet; he slid forward on his stomach, used his elbows and knees and
stomach to urge himself forward. It seemed easy. He felt exultant.

There was nothing but pure joy in moving his body this way.
He was in absolute command of every muscle, every capillary, every tiny nerve
ending. He seemed to sense obstacles ahead of him with an instinct he had never
possessed before. He was able to gauge with a glance the exact amount of effort
needed to hurdle a series of six barriers and then spin to the right toward the
high façade of the frame building, the last of the group. He felt as if he had
only just started. Nothing could stop him.

The coil of nylon line and the grappling hook were on a
small wooden table set in the field on his line of approach. He snatched
it up without pause, precisely timing the gesture, and raced toward the high
false-front
 
building, whirling the
grapnel as he went. The grappling hook went over the top, caught with a
chunking sound, and he yanked it taut. There were enough foot and toe holds on
the lower floor of the movie-set facade to let him scale the first
ten feet with ease and speed. It was like walking up a flight of stairs,
although he was poised dangerously, tilted outward, keeping the nylon rope
taut. He wrapped it around his right wrist and punched his feet against the
boards, swinging free, and hauled himself up, hand over hand now, toward the
overhanging eave. It thrust out farther than he had thought. He clung
precariously to the hook and line, but he felt no fear. He kicked out, hauled
himself upward, heard his shoulder muscles crack with the effort, then swung up
and over. There was a narrow platform, hardly wide enough for his feet, on the other
side. He unhooked the grapnel, reset it for a descent on the fiat side of
the set, and went down in great, swinging bouncing slides, until his feet
touched the ground below.

The track from behind the facade made a long loop just
inside the high perimeter fence. The other unicorns had put on a burst of speed
from this point, following the track in a long curve back to Dr. MacLeod’s
reviewing stand.

Durell did not hesitate.

The fence around the field was more than fourteen feet
high, he judged, with barbed wire glinting in the feeble morning sunlight.