The Invaders Plan (3 page)

The speedwheeler whispered back and the member of the Knife Section got off. He pushed the vehicle at the waiting mechanics to reload and then sauntered over to Lombar.

"Took it like babies," said the bogus messenger with an evil grin. He handed over the envelope. I took it because Lombar was busy scanning the sky. It said,
Fleet Orders. Very Secret. Very Urgent.

Lombar had the light magnifiers on the heavens. "They spoke to no one." It was a statement, not a question.

"No one," said Knife Section.

"They were all there," said Lombar. Another statement.

"All there," said Knife Section. "The craftleader called the roll."

"Ah," said Lombar, seeing something in the sky, "they've turned. In less than an hour they'll all be safe in Spiteos and
B-44-A-539-G
will be found in a day or two burned to a crisp in the Great Desert." It seemed to give him a lot of satisfaction. My blood was running cold. Conditioned as I was to operations of the Apparatus, the kidnapping of a Royal Fleet crew and wanton destruction of an expensive long-range star patrol craft was a bit wide even for that lawless organization. And forging some admiral's signature could bring a death sentence. I was still holding the envelope the Knife Section had handed me and I hastily put it in my blouse, just in case.

Lombar took another look at the sky. "Good! So far, good! Now we're going over to the officers' club and pick up that (bleep), (bleep),
(bleep)
Jettero Heller! Load up!"

It is one thing to dispose of an Apparatus ranker: you just shoot him; it is quite another to illegally do away with a Royal officer. But Lombar Hisst was going about it like it was something one did every day, without a second thought.

The officers' club was a brilliant blare of light and sound. It was a high-roofed series of buildings – dining rooms, bars, accommodations for single officers and an enclosed sports arena. It was built to house around forty thousand. It stood in an inset valley, backed by towering mountain peaks.

A second moon had risen now and it was far too light for comfort. Lombar found shelter for the trucks under the shoulder of a hill – he had a talent for locating darkness – and we proceeded on foot, keeping to shadows and out of sight, with two squads of the 2nd Death Battalion.

The bulk of the sound was coming from the sports arena. All around, outside its exits, there were many flowering shrubs and the air was heavy with their night perfume. They furnished shadow and concealment and Lombar, with silent flicks of his stinger, inserted a cordon of guards into strategic places so that they made a hidden half-moon with the arena's main exit at the center. With their black uniforms, one would never know that thirty deadly Apparatus troops formed a trap.

Lombar shoved me forward and we went to a barred window near the exit and peered in.

A game of bullet ball was in progress. The spectator seats were a mass of color and, just as we looked, a roar of applause was enough to make the door tremble. Somebody had scored.

You know bullet ball, of course. The wide floor of the arena is divided up into precise white circles, each about ten feet in diameter and fifty feet, one from another. Each contestant has a bag of forty-two balls. In the civilian and professional version of the game, these are quite soft, about three inches in diameter and covered with black chalk. The players, in the civilian version, are dressed in white and number four. But this is the Fleet version.

Young officers being young officers, in the Fleet version the balls are very hard, like true missiles. They are chalked bright red. And the players strip to white pants, leaving their chests bare. The Fleet version increases the individual players to six and that can be very dangerous indeed.

The object, of course, is for each single player to try to take out all the other players. A hit must be on the torso, above the belt and below the chin. If one steps out of his circle in his efforts to dodge, he is, of course, out of the game.

It is a great test of skill and agility not only to throw accurately but also to dodge the "bullets" of the other players.

One of those balls can travel anything from seventy to a hundred and twenty-five miles an hour. They can crush ribs, break arms or smash skulls. And one can't anticipate their real paths. A really good player can throw them so they curve suddenly in flight when only five feet away and instead of dodging out of the way, one can accidentally move straight into them. An expert can also make a ball "break" down or up in flight at the last split second or even make them screw through the air, utterly unpredictable.

Dodging is an art in itself – trying to look like you'll be in one place while being in quite another when the bullet actually arrives requires foot and body work that would make a leap-dancer look like a cow. A player can have several bullets coming at him all at once from five different directions! Every one of them totally lethal.

In the Fleet version, adding two more players, six instead of four, it can get pretty fast! And the Fleet players don't just try to get their opponents to
step
out of the ring: they send them flying! I never cared for bullet ball myself, even if they ever would have let me play.

The sight we saw before us must have been the last of a series of sets. Several vanquished players were on the sidelines, below the massed and cheering crowd. One player was being put on a stretcher.

On the floor was a nearly finished final game. There were only three players left unmarked and on their feet. The two furthest from us were evidently combining against the one nearest us who had just expertly reached out and caught both bullets in his hands, left and right. If you can do that, you of course have more ammunition but Lords help your stinging hands! That was what had made the crowd cheer.

The player nearest to us still held the two balls. He was sort of dancing on his toes, weaving to left and right.

Another player threw and as far away as we were and despite the crowd sounds, the sizzle-whip of the ball was loud. Real velocity!

I was still a bit light-blinded and I didn't quite see how it happened. But the crowd sure did! The nearest player, in that split second, had thrown his right-hand ball and almost in the same motion had
caught
the incoming sizzler.

Then the crowd really went wild! The bullet of the nearest player had hit an opponent in the chest and knocked him backwards eight feet and clean out of his ring!

I gasped. I had now and then seen a player throw and catch in the same play but I had never seen one throw, catch and hit!

I was distracted by the rumbling whisper of Lombar beside me. He had the bogus orderly by the neck and was showing him the nearest player. "That's Jettero Heller. Do exactly as I told you. No slips!" He gave him an envelope and the man from Knife Section slid inside.

So that was Jettero Heller. I felt not just nervous but a little sick. Listening to that crowd of females and junior ranks, this fellow was not just a little popular. And popular people get missed when you kidnap them. I glanced at Lombar.

It gave me another shock. I was used to Lombar's look of displeasure with all about him. But there was something else here now: a bitter hatred was lifting his lip from his teeth.

I looked back at Heller. He was a tall, very good-looking fellow, extremely well built. Everything about him was bright, full of life. He was dancing back and forth on his toes, laughing at the dilemma of his remaining opponent who now had very few bullets left and was ducking and dodging even though nothing was being thrown at him.

"Want to give up?" shouted Jettero. "We can just toss in our bags and call it a draw." The other's response was a fast, wicked, curving throw that sizzled within an inch of Heller's head. The crowd gasped. If it had connected it would have smashed his skull in. But Heller only laughed and began to wind up with his
left
hand. He was reducing the odds for the other officer.

I glanced again at Lombar. Hate was making his brow twitch. And then I got it. There was more to this than just an Apparatus operation. Lombar had been dragged up from the slums of Port City; he had clawed and beaten and blackmailed his way to his present high post. He was ugly, treated with contempt and then fear by females. And Heller was everything Lombar had never been and never could be. Listen to that crowd!

Jettero Heller obviously didn't want anything to do with such an unequal contest. He started tossing balls slowly, one after the other, easy to catch. All Heller's opponent had to do was grab them and restock his depleted bag. At first the rival took it very badly and refused to touch the incoming missiles, letting them bounce by. Then in a fury of action, one after the other, he threw his last five bullets as hard as he could. Heller didn't move his feet. He swung his body this way and that, quicker than an eye could easily follow, and every ball went by harmlessly.

The opponent would clearly be defeated. He had no bullets left and Heller had a nearly full bag. So the rival simply walked to the forward edge of his ring, dropped his arms and stood there with his chest fully exposed, his eyes closed.

Heller walked sideways in his circle. The crowd was hushed, watching, not knowing what he was going to do.

Jettero Heller deliberately put one foot outside his ring.

The crowd went crazy.

The opponent, startled, opened his eyes, saw he was still in one piece and then began to laugh.

He and Heller trotted toward each other and embraced in the center of the arena.

The crowd really did go crazy! They were rushing from their seats, shouting and cheering, swarming around Heller.

And this was the guy we were going to kidnap!

I looked nervously at Lombar. I have never seen such bitterness on anyone's face. Yes, this was the fellow we were going to kidnap. And for more reasons than one.

The bogus orderly came out of the exit door.

About three paces behind him came Jettero Heller. The combat engineer was smiling; he had thrown a sweater across his naked back and was using one of the sleeves to wipe some of the sweat off his face; in his other hand he held the forged summons.

The moment Heller was clear of the door, Lombar slid over to close it and to block the window we had used so that no one else could exit or see what was happening outside.

I suddenly held my breath, wondering if Heller would notice: the "orderly" was walking like no spaceman ever walks; he was not sliding along with the easy float that stamps the people of the Fleet. And then something else: that confounded criminal from the Knife Section was wearing his duty belt upside down! The rings from which crew hang equipment and to which they snap safety lines were at the top of the wide red belt, not the bottom. I also caught a flicker of movement from the guards hidden in the dark shrubs and the faintest click of a weapon bolt. My eyes riveted on Heller's back. Had he noticed?

Heller gave no advance warning. He didn't stop and stare or look down at the envelope he held. He gave no intake of breath to alert anyone that he was tensing his muscles. He didn't even change his smile.

He exploded!

So quick I couldn't follow it, both of Heller's feet were in the air and striking!

The bogus orderly hit the pavement like a shot-down plane.

Heller leaped at him, ready to seize the impostor.

We saw then where the Knife Section got its name. The fellow had barely hit the ground when his hand flashed to the back of his neck. A ten-inch shaft of steel caught light.

He rolled to stab!

The toe of Heller's foot connected with the orderly's wrist. I heard the bone snap. The knife went spinning up toward the floodlights.

The shrubs burst into life. With sizzling cracks, five electric whips snapped out. They writhed in arcs of green fire. They coiled around Heller, pinning his arms and legs, jolting him upright.

How he managed to turn, I don't know. An electric whip is like a strangling rope and I had never before seen a man able to move with one on him, much less five.

Heller twisted himself to get back to the door.

But Lombar was there. He was holding a paralysis dagger, upraised.

Lombar struck!

The deadly shaft plunged into Heller's shoulder. He started to fall. But even then he was not out. His face was turned to Lombar and there was recognition in his eyes just before they snapped shut.

Like efficient ghosts, guardsmen went into action. A black blanket fluttered down and covered Heller. The electric whip beams were turned off. Like pallbearers conducting a funeral at triple speed they bore their burden off.

Lombar made a hasty check of the scene. There was no unwanted witness in sight. The Knife Section fellow was sitting there, groaning, holding his wrist. Lombar recovered the steel shaft from the shrubs and kicked the fellow to his feet.

I picked up the envelope that had dropped and put it in my blouse.

We faded away from the club.

Under the shoulder of the mountain we loaded up the lorries.

Lombar held a hasty conference with a guard captain. "Get him into an aircar and take him to Spiteos. The orders are: deepest cell, electric wire cage, no communication with anyone. Until I say so, he no longer exists. Got that?" The guard captain emphatically did and Lombar released his tunic lapels and snapped the stinger. Then the lorries were gone.

We got into Lombar's tank. The Apparatus Chief snapped the driver on the back of the head with the stinger to start him off and then turned to me.

"Why can't you take care of things like this?" said Lombar. "If you'd been doing your job, none of this would have had to happen. Can't you ever learn anything?" I knew the folly of trying to find out what I was supposed to learn.

But he wasn't as savage as he had been. The evening's work had given him a lift. He merely sounded annoyed and put upon.