The Terminators (6 page)

"Talking?" I said. "What do you mean?"

"Well, if we were overheard. . . . There are things like microphones and such, aren't there?"

I grinned. "Swell. We're going to make a first-class operative of you, Diana Lawrence. However, I checked both cabins when I first came aboard, as well as I could. I think they're clean."

"Oh."

We stood there for a moment, silent. It had been a rushed acquaintanceship all the way. This was the first time we'd really had an opportunity to stop and see each other clearly. I don't know how I looked, but if it was anything like I felt, it was terrible. She looked even worse, if possible, if only Because girls are kind of supposed to be neater and prettier than boys. Now, after being dressed up in another woman's sodden, slightly too small clothes and run several blocks through heavy rain she looked hopelessly bedraggled and at the same time a little ridiculous, like the old movie in which the comic gets caught in a thunder-shower in his cheap new suit and it shrinks on him.

The thought seemed to occur to her at the same time and she glanced down at herself wryly. A funny little smile twitched the comers of her pale lips as she looked up once more.

"We're a pair of clowns, aren't we?" she said. "You'd better get into something dry before you freeze to death. Helm?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why are you doing it?" she asked. "On this mission, you're contract labor, if you don't mind my saying so. It's nothing to you. Why did you go to the trouble of working out this elaborate scheme to retrieve the disaster, our disaster, and practically cram it down our throats."

I hesitated. I couldn't tell her, of course, that I was doing it largely Because of Denison; but there were other reasons. "Nobody dies for nothing," I said.

"What?"

"It's an old saying we have," I said. "People die, sure. It can't always be helped. But we can see to it that everyone who dies, dies for something. Well, Evelyn Benson died. Maybe I could have saved her. Maybe I should have. So I didn't have things carefully explained to me. So I wasn't warned. So what? Guys like me aren't supposed to have to be warned. If you must know, I was just too goddamned cocksure that I had it all figured out, that if anybody came to kill, he'd come for me. Okay. She's dead. It's too late for me to do anything about that. But I can try to see that whatever she wanted done gets done, even without her."

Diana Lawrence was watching me oddly. "You're a . .. a funny man," she said. "I mean—"

"Hilarious," I said. "I'll keep you in stitches clear up the coast. Stay here. I mean that. Don't even stick your head out of this cabin—particularly not your head. Somebody might recognize it, or what would be worse, not recognize it, if you follow me. You're Madeleine Barth sleeping off the effects of a mild concussion and a cold midnight swim. As long as nobody sees you, nobody can say otherwise. The ladies' John is just across the way. If you need it, say so now, and I'll watch the hall while you. . . . No?"

She smiled faintly. "No, thank you very much," she said. She hesitated. "Am I ... am I supposed to know what you're doing?"

I looked at her for a moment. "You're a bright girl. I'm sure you can figure out what's got to be done next," I said. "Keep that gun handy,' and shoot hell out of anybody who opens that door, as long as it isn't me."

V.

THE ship's first-class lounge looked out upon the bow deck with its mast and cargo booms, only dimly visible in the darkness outside the rain-wet windows. I hoped the guy up on the bridge could see more out there than I could and that he had an efficient radar to help him. We seemed to be proceeding at a good clip, judging by the sound of the machinery below, and the map of Norway I'd studied had indicated that it was a hell of a rocky, reef-strewn coast to go blasting along blindly on a stormy night. I consoled myself with the thought that this ship, and presumably this captain, had been making it for years, clear up beyond the Arctic Circle and back. Maybe it was easy when you knew how.

A TV set was going in the lounge, tuned to a Norwegian quiz show that had the studio audience roaring with appreciative laughter. Only a few of the people scattered around the room were paying any attention. The rest were manfully, or womanfully, trying to ignore the noisy box as they chatted, read, or napped, bracing themselves against the motion of the ship in their comfortable, clamped-down chairs. Again, as on the plane, I found myself wondering about a society that permits one person with a coin, or the strength to manipulate a switch or just make a request, to inflict his entertainment preferences on everybody around; but it was hardly a time for solving odd social problems. . . .

I saw the red backpack, mate to the one I'd watched being carried ashore, parked by the lounge door. Then I spotted the owner, in the corner to my right where he could see who entered while ostensibly enjoying the funny, funny show on the black-and-white screen. I say ostensibly, Because when I first saw him he was being seriously distracted by a pair of nylon-clad legs belonging to an attractive, nicely dressed young lady passenger sitting on a nearby sofa. I didn't blame him for his preoccupation, considering the scarcity of that kind of entertainment in Scandinavia, these trousered days—but the older man seated beside the girl was rather small and inconspicuous, with fine, white, carefully combed hair that let die pink scalp show through on top.

A rather mild-looking little whitehaired man
, Hank Priest had said, describing Dr. Adolf Elfenbein. 
Fairly small and rather attractive
, he'd said, referring to Greta Elfenbein. Well, that was fine, the enemy high command was in sight, but it could wait. At the moment I had business with the lower echelons.

My man glanced around, nudged by some primitive instinct, and saw me standing there. For a moment, he couldn't decide how to treat the discovery; but I was looking straight at him, and there was really nothing to be cute about, so he looked back with a direct challenge in his eyes. We both knew what he'd done tonight, he said to me silently across the room and what was I going to do about it, hey? Of course, I knew he was a successful murderer and he thought he'd failed; but that was my little joke, and I wasn't going to share it with him or anybody else, if I could help it.

His eyes were very blue, I saw, and his ruddy, rugged, thirty-year-old face might have been considered handsome by some. I had a hunch he was rather impressed with it himself; and not only with his looks, but with his strength, his courage, his skill, and his ruthlessness. So much the better. The vanity boys are almost always pushovers, if you handle them right. I jerked my head slightly, requesting his presence outside. He gave no answering sign. I grinned mockingly, reached down, and picked up the gaudy red nylon pack and walked off with it, aware of his eyes widening abruptly in an outraged way. . . .

It was too bad, really. It was a reflection on the personnel policies of the Elfenbein outfit. They should have hired somebody less concerned with his own brave image; less ready to challenge and be challenged. Of course, I had everything going for me. The man had undoubtedly been briefed. He'd been shown the dossier and told I was supposed to be dangerous.

He'd even, apparently, been ordered to steer clear of me and take the girl instead; the easy pickings. He was, by his looks, the virile kind who'd feel that was an insult; a hint that somebody thought he wasn't good enough to run in truly fast company. He'd be hoping for an excuse to forget his instructions and cut me down to size: the local fast-draw kid eager to make a name for himself by tackling the stranger in black with the tied-down guns and the big reputation. . . . Okay, so it was corny, but punks are punks the world over, and have been since history began. In the primeval cave, on the streets of Abilene, or along the coast of Norway, they're all the same. At least I hoped so.

I pushed open the door to the deck outside, and was greeted by a fierce blast of wind with some rain and spray in it and by the rhythmic, surging hiss of the ship driving hard through the black, stormy night. There was nobody out on deck. I moved aft, bracing myself against the ship's roll and the thrlist of the wind, half-dragging the heavy pack. Slinging it over a shoulder would have been easier, but I didn't want to be tangled up in it if he should come with a rush.

He didn't. I guess he was puzzled. Maybe he couldn't believe I was being as obvious as I seemed, deliberately spitting in his eye, so to speak. There had to be a trick, a trap, somewhere. I guess he had a little caution in his system after all, but it wasn't enough to keep him from following. He called after me once from the door, and came after me, and shouted again, angrily. I turned, and gave him that mean grin again, and threw his pack over the rail into the sea.

That shocked him. It tripped the trigger inside him, as I'd hoped it would. caution forgotten, insulted and furious, he moved forward deliberately, stalking me; a big man with lots of light hair whipping past his face. I was aware that the Vikings, no sissies, had worn it long but I still wasn't quite hardened to the sight of a man with flowing golden tresses. It still seemed feminine and unnatural to me in a combat situation, along with the fancy necklace he was wearing over his dark turtleneck. There was a gun in his hand now, but with the jolting wind, and the erratic motion of the ship, he wanted to get close enough to make quite sure. Maybe he was remembering a girl who'd come back to life Because he hadn't been quite thorough enough, or thought he hadn't.

I guess he also wanted to frighten me a bit before he killed me. They generally do if you make them mad enough. You can practically count on it.

I knew the instant he made up his mind to shoot—well, to shoot the next time the deck was halfway steady. It showed in his eyes and in his stance. As the gun started to line up, I threw myself low and to one side, swinging my arm in an arc parallel to the deck. The belt I'd held coiled in my hand whipped out, weighted by its heavy buckle. It wrapped itself around the ankle of his advanced leg before he could pull back. He really wasn't very good. He should have fired, of course, and to hell with dodging. What harm could a belt do in the hand of a dead man?

But, trying to avoid the flashing buckle, too late, he missed his opportunity to nail me. Then I'd yanked the foot out from under him. He came down awkwardly on his tailbone, legs apart; and the gun flew out of his hand and skidded away along the deck. He tried to scramble after it, another mistake. He should have let it go and come for me barehanded. Big and strong as he was, he'd still have had a good chance.

But he went for the weapon instinctively and I hauled back and managed to stretch him out before the belt unwound itself and came loose in my hand. Dropping it, I rose, and stepped forward and kicked the side of his head, hard, as he tried to get to his knees. Dazed, he covered up, expecting another kick. I turned and grabbed his ankles instead, and dragged him to the rail with a rush, and heaved up and out. For a moment he was draped there ridiculously, head down, with his feet kicking over the side and his fingers trying for a grip on the metal mesh of the rail. A chop at one clutching hand, a kick at the other where it clung to the grillwork and I grabbed a couple of fistfuls of the long hair, finding a good use for it at last, and levered him the rest of the way over, hoping there was no one on the deck below to hear the wailing cry he let out as he fell.

I stood there a moment, breathing hard. Instinct, and perhaps a glimpse of movement, brought me around fast. A small figure was making for the fallen gun. Concentrating on the man, I hadn't been aware of another presence. The girl almost made it, but I got there first and put my foot on the weapon before she could reach down and grab it.

She straightened up to face me; the young lady I assumed to be Greta Elfenbein; the attractive passenger from the lounge sofa; the little dark-haired, dark-eyed one with the nice nylons; but it was not a good night for pretty ladies and their pretty clothes. The howling wind along the deck was dismantling and demolishing her as she stood there, destroying her careful hairdo, getting under the pleated skirt of her neat, gray suit and streaming it from her waist like a storm flag, yanking her tailored jacket into wild, unbuttoned disorder, dragging her thin blouse, flapping, out of her waistband. . . .

"You . . . you 
killed
 him!" she shouted accusingly. Her English was good but accented. "You threw him in the sea to drown!"

"He had it coming, Miss Elfenbein," I yelled. "Don't send any more of your friends after Madeleine Barth. Not unless you've got friends to spare."

Her eyes told me I had the right girl, not that I'd had any serious doubts. I waited for her to speak. I could see that she wanted to say something that was fierce and threatening, and at the same time full of disdain and dignity; but with one hand busy keeping her whipping, snapping hair out of her eyes, and the other engaged in getting her crazily blowing skirt down where it would conceal at least a little of her panty-hose, she didn't have much dignity to work with. She turned and ran forward and disappeared into the cabin.

It would take a little time for her to put herself back together, both physically and mentally. Not wanting to get involved in another major confrontation tonight, I made a slow business of putting my belt back on and picking up the pistol and examining it by one of the weak deck-lights. It was a small Spanish job stamped: 
LLAMA, Gabilondo y Cia Vitoria (Espana) Cal. .380
. Strangely, it was a miniature replica of the Colt .45 auto, complete with exposed hammer and grip safety. There's nothing wrong with the big Colt, of course, except that it kicks too hard for some people. It's a great old cannon but I couldn't see much point in faithfully copying a relatively clumsy and awkward military sidearm in three-quarter size for use as a pocket pistol. It was kind of like building a small working model of an antitank gun to use for a deer rifle.

Having stalled long enough, or what I hoped was long enough, I pocketed the weapon and went inside. The girl was nowhere to be seen. In the lounge, the sofa on which she'd been sitting earlier was empty. The white-haired man, presumably her father, was missing also. Perhaps they'd retired to their quarters to hold a council of war: subject, retribution. I hoped they'd come to a sensible decision. I thought they probably would. Judging by what I'd been told, Dr. Adolf Elfenbein had been working at his particular racket long enough not to blow his stack at the loss of a little low-grade manpower.