The Invaders Plan (59 page)

Heller exploded with laughter. "We don't use bows and arrows on Voltar! Look around, Soltan. You see any?" He thought it was screamingly funny. He laughed and laughed. I hoped he choked.

I could see I was getting nowhere on that course, so I went into my second argument. I had spent hours on this project, all aspects of how to lure him into an operation. "Well, that may or may not be," I said a bit sternly. "But it doesn't get around Regulation 534279765 Part A, Paragraph 1! It distinctly states that no one with identifying marks may be landed on Earth! So there!" He had stopped laughing. "You have the regulations here to show me, of course." Well, I couldn't do that. I had just made it up. But I can think pretty fast. "You know of
Book of Space Codes
Number a-36-544 M Section B, prohibiting landing and disclosure of extraterrestrial identity." He knew of that, yes.

"The identifying marks regulation I just gave you is a secret court interpretation of it. We're bound by it, you know." Heller shook his head. "I confess I have not seen it. And if that interpretation is Apparatus, I'm Fleet. I'm not bound by it." It was plain I was not progressing. But the psychology of Blito-P3 had not yet been brought into play. This is the real standby of my personal tradecraft. Nobody ever knew, until these disclosures here, that I owed my success to it.

A child, it says, when denied the things it wants, often goes into what is called a
tantrum,
which is one of their scientific terms. Adults, faced with it, usually recoil and surrender. I went into Stage One of a
tantrum.

"You," I pouted, "are just trying to make my job difficult. You are an old meany." It is a magic psychological term, an incantation phrase. Right away, I could see it was having an affect. Heller looked at me, puzzled.

I went into Stage Two:
negation.
"If you don't go with me for your physical readiness appointment, I WILL NOT STAMP ANY MORE COMPLETION ORDERS FOR YOU!" I shouted the last in a proper pitch and wail.

It was working. He was peering at me, perplexed.

I went into Stage Three:
convulsive denial.
I fell on the floor on my back, I writhed. I beat my heels against the floor in a furious tattoo, simulating an
epileptiform seizure.
It is that which gets them. The secret is that an epileptiform seizure also occurs in death: the adults fear the child is in the last convulsions of dying. I was watching carefully out of the corner of my eye.

It really was working! He took a long sigh – the textbook response – and rolled his eyes up to heavens.

Stage Four is putting a piece of soap in the mouth and
frothing
and I had the soap all ready. I was also ready to go into Stage Five which is the
simulated death rattle.

I didn't have to!

Heller said, "Oh, for Gods sakes, Soltan! You don't have to put on a phony act! If my not going will get you into trouble with Lombar Hisst, I'll come along!" I had him!

Outside I told the subofficer and guard to stay by the ship. Heller would be gone for the day.

We took off.

Earth psychology works every time! Not as pleasant, of course, as a Bugs Bunny activity. But every bit as effective! Those psychologists and psychiatrists on Earth have it down pat! They can fool the suckers every time! Absolute masters of cold-blooded deception and chicanery!

Satisfyingly cruel, too. Just like my plans for today.

"Well, well," said Heller as we flew in. "Pausch Hills suburbs. An improvement over the operating rooms of Spiteos." Ske was taking a low approach to the Widow Tayl's estate. "Oh, yes, indeed. I knew what I was doing when I persuaded you. You were very wise to come along. Everything will be just lovely. Nothing but the best." And I pointed out the sign on the gate, Sacred Memorial Hospital Preserved in Memory of My Beloved Husband Too bad, I thought to myself, that we can't bury you the same way. "A specialist doctor, the top of his profession, will take wonderful care of you." You crew-corrupting (bleepard). I smiled. We landed. "Well, here we are and out you get." Prahd was standing way over outside the miniature hospital door. He had a surgical, aseptic mask on. He was holding a glittering pair of forceps in his hand. The sun flashed on the polished metal as he opened and closed them.

Heller jumped down out of the airbus. He took a deep breath of the fragrant, blossom-laden air and stretched. Then he started across the lawn and past the swimming bath toward Bittlestiffender. I could hardly contain my glee: he had taken the bait; I had him!

Over under the blossoming trees, I had not seen the Widow Tayl. She was standing there in the shadows. She had not moved forward. She was just standing there. Her mouth was half-open, her eyes round. She was holding one hand to her breast as though finding it hard to breathe. I thought to myself that she was, unfortunately, really developing a case on me. "Adoration fixation," they call it: the inexplicable attraction of the female for a virile and handsome male. I regretted having this effect on women at the moment. I had other business in mind. I hastened to keep up with Heller.

"Doctor Bittlestiffender," I said. "Here is your . . . patient." I had almost said "meat." I had already briefed young Doctor Prahd Bittlestiffender. But he was a little nervous. Why not? He thought his world would collapse if he failed with this case. He nodded, snap-snipping the instrument in his hand convulsively. He led the way hurriedly inside.

Heller took a brief tour around the room. "Well, well. All the latest and the newest."

"Now, if you will just remove your clothes and lie down on this operating table," said young Doctor Prahd, "we can get on with it."

"I hope so," said Heller. "I've got a lot of things to do at the ship. We're sailing very soon, so ..." His ignorance of espionage and security was awful! He'd be telling Bittlestiffender his life history and right name next! I cut him off. "Then the sooner you do what the doctor says, the quicker it will be over." Heller kicked off his shoes and peeled. He lay down on the operating table.

"Hm," said the young Doctor Prahd, "you are certainly extremely well built. And equipped." It startled me. I glanced to see if there was amour in this young doctor's eyes. But there wasn't. He was just being matter-of-fact professional. And it was true, unfortunately, what he said of Heller. He was a very muscular, well-proportioned athlete and he was very well equipped. I realized Prahd was building patient empathy. Then I realized the compliment had made me a little cross. Other people are well built and equipped, too. Well, not really.

"Doctor," I said, "I want to call your attention to certain deadly identifying marks. Quite disfiguring. And a total catastrophe in our line of work." Prahd was looking and looking. He couldn't see any. And the dumb (bleepard) was about to say so when I firmly pointed at the tiny white scar Lombar's paralysis dagger had made. "That," I said, leaving no room for dispute, "must be taken care of!" I pointed at the end of the right eyebrow. "And
there
is the dead giveaway. Stands out like a glaring boil!" Young Doctor Prahd peered and peered and finally saw the faint scar tissue. He shocked me by saying, "He certainly heals well. It would take a magnifying . . ."

"
That,"
I said hurriedly – my Gods, this doctor was stupid, for I had drilled him well – "is the remains of a bone-deep wound. It was the result of a skull-shattering blow from a primitive stone arrowhead!" Prahd blinked. "A stone arrowhead?" Then both he and Heller had no better sense, at this crucial moment, than to laugh. Heller told the story to him. It seemed they weren't even fighting the primitives and Heller had been curious as to how they held their stockade wall up – it seemed to be floating two feet off the ground – and, as a precaution as he approached it, had drawn his blastgun and a little kid had shot him with a stone-headed arrow. For the life of me, I couldn't see what was so funny about it. Further, I judged he must tell the story differently every time he had a new audience. It didn't make sense. If he had a blastgun in his hand, he could easily have killed the little kid first. So he was lying.

But before I could get this silly situation under control, young Doctor Prahd had picked up a machine that had a viewplate and was putting it under Heller's head. Prahd looked at the screen. I looked at the screen. I couldn't see anything but the outline of some skull bones.

Then young Doctor Prahd said, "Well, I'll be blasted! Was this treated?" Heller shrugged. "Wasn't much to treat. We mostly laughed about it. The doctor just put some tape on it."

"Ah," said young Doctor Prahd. "He should have been sent before the doctor's review board!" He was very serious.

Heller had stopped laughing.

Young Doctor Prahd put his finger just in toward the eyebrow on the wound. "Does that hurt?"

"Ouch," said Heller.

"I thought so!" Prahd drew an
X
on the spot with a purple pen. He drew back and turned the machine off and put it on another bench. Then he stood back and shook his head at Heller. "Had that doctor taken the proper steps, he would have seen what I just saw!" I gaped. I hadn't seen anything on the screen.

Young Doctor Prahd looked grave. "My dear fellow, I don't like to tell you this. Now don't be unduly alarmed for you are in competent hands. But in another two years at the outside, had it not come to my attention, the creeping penetration syndrome would have resulted in prefrontal lobe incision with the usual consequences of internal cerebral shield suppuration." What the Hells was this stupid doctor up to?

"Hey," said Heller, "physical doctoring is not in my line. You'll have to put that in plain Voltarian." Prahd took Heller's hand in his own in a comforting gesture. "I have to tell you – now don't leap up and run away – that the tip of that stone arrowhead is still in there!" I finally got it! Wow, this young Doctor Prahd was a very sharp boy. No wonder the older practitioners didn't want him around as competition! A real con artist! Worthy of the finest traditions of the Apparatus!

"Hold it," said Heller. "I haven't got time to let you fool around with that now! I've got to get going on a mission!" Young Doctor Prahd said, "Mission physical clearance refused. Officer Gris, please inform your superiors that said subject cannot be certified for physical readiness."

"Why?" demanded Heller, trying to sit up.

Prahd said, "If the inevitable consequences of a foreign body gradually eating its way into the brain were to occur after I passed you, resulting in mission failure as it would, the Board of Examiners could revoke my certificates. So, I cannot pass you. You cannot go." Thank heavens, Krak had already worked on him. Heller started to get mad. "You don't understand! I've got to complete this mission!" Prahd was just putting his tools away.

"How long would it take to remove it?" demanded Heller.

Prahd shrugged. "It's not a big job, even if it is vital. Two hours. Another four or five to recover from the anesthesia."

"Oh, no," said Heller. "I promised . . . well, I promised somebody not to let myself be put under around . . . around certain people."

"Oh, Jet," I said. "Don't you trust your friends?" But I had thought of all this. I knew that Krak would have a fit if she found Heller had been put into a general anesthesia. She had feared somebody would really cut him up or maybe do a hypnotic implant. I had worked it all out.

I picked up a case from a table from right where I had left it. I handed it to Heller. "That is a security recorder. Lockable. I give it to you. You set your own combination on it. You lock it to your own wrist. Nobody can interfere with it or change it but you. It will start recording. It will keep right on recording until you wake up. It will take both sound and picture of what is happening. Examine it." He did so. There were no tricks in it. The metal case was totally impenetrable once it was locked. Only he would know the numbers and be able to open it and get at the recording strip.

Heller sighed. In a weary voice, he said, "Which wrist do I put it on." I had won! I had won! But I preserved my grave mien. "Left wrist, as the doctor will be working on the right side. We can lay your hand on this little wheeltable and it will just sit there and record everything. Then you, at your leisure, can review it." I knew the Countess Krak would review it!

He thought of some numbers, committed them silently to memory, set the lock, put it on his wrist and laid his hand and the recorder on the table. He adjusted the position so it would show what was happening.

The recorder was running. I said to Prahd, "I feel a little queasy. Have you got something?" He handed me a pill.

Heller was watching in a rather bored way as the doctor began to get out knives and forceps and probes and wheel things about.

Prahd was chattering along soothingly. "It's the small things in life that are annoying. You would just never think that a tiny bit of stone could do much real damage." Etc. Etc. On and on.

Finally Prahd wheeled a portable anesthetic gas machine into place. He said to me, "Could you hold this?"

"Oh, no," I said. "The sight of blood makes me quite ill lately for some reason." Prahd shrugged, turned up the oxygen and turned on the sleep gas. He put the mask over the other part of Heller's face. Heller began to inhale it. The needle on a meter clamped to the back of Heller's skull registered
Unconscious.

The young doctor picked up a scalpel.

I said, suddenly, "Oh, my Gods, I'm going to be sick at my stomach!" I rushed headlong from the room, making heaving sounds.

Still groaning, I paused in the hall and letting the heaving sounds diminish gradually, reached down and pulled the string I had planted there yesterday. It pulled the wheeltable on which the recorder was resting back just enough to let the hand and wrist fall off, as though naturally, and drop below sight level of the bed. It would look as if he had moved his own arm. The recorder would now have sound but only the side of the bed for a picture.