Sam Hall, page 4
Sam Hall, reflected Thornberg, had lived a hard life, all violence and enmity and suspicion. Even his wife hadn’t trusted him.
… And my Nellie dressed in blue Says:
Your trifling days are
through.
Now I knew that you’ll be true,
Damn your hide.’”
Poor Sam Hall. It was no wonder he had killed a man.
Suspicion!
Thornberg stood for a taut moment while an eerie tingle went through him. The police state was founded on suspicion. Nobody could trust anyone else. And with the new fear of psycho-masking, and research on that project suspended during the crisis—
Steady, boy, steady. Can’t rush into this. Have to plan it out very carefully.
Thornberg punched for the dossiers of key men in the administration, in the military, in Security. He did it in the presence of two assistants, for he thought that his own frequent sessions alone in the control booth were beginning to look funny.
“This is top secret,” he warned them, pleased with his own cool manner. He was becoming a regular Machiavelli. “You’ll be skinned alive if you mention it to anyone.”
Rodney gave him a shrewd glance. “So they’re not even sure of their own top men now, are they?” he murmured.
“I’ve been told to make some checks,” snapped Thornberg. “That’s all you need to know.” ‘
He studied the files for many hours before coming to a decision. Secret observations were, of course, made of everyone from time to time. A crosscheck with Matilda showed that the cop who had filed the last report on Lindahl had been killed the next day in a spontaneous and abortive uprising. The report was innocuous: Lindahl had stayed at home, studying some papers; he had been alone in the house except for a bodyguard who had been in another room and not seen him. And Lindahl was Undersecretary of Defense.
Thornberg changed the record. A masked man—stocky, black-haired— had come in and talked for three hours with Lindahl. They had spoken low, so that the cop’s ears, outside the window, couldn’t catch what was said’ The visitor had gone away then, and Lindahl had retired. The cop went back in great excitement and made out his report and gave it to the signalman, who had sent it on to Matilda.
Tough on the signalman, thought Thornberg. They’ll want to know why he didn’t tell this to his chief in New Washington, if the observer was killed before doing so. He’ll deny every such report, and they’ll hypnoquiz him— but they don’t trust that method any more!
His sympathy didn’t last long. What counted was having the war over before Jack got here. He re-filed the altered spool and did a little backtracking, shifting the last report of Sam Hall from Salt Lake City to Philadelphia. Make it more plausible. Then, as opportunity permitted, he did some work on other men’s records.
He had to wait two haggard days before the next requisition came from Security for a fresh cross-check on Sam Hall. The scanners swept in an intricate pattern, a cog turned over, a tube glowed. Circuits were activated elsewhere, the spool LINDAHL was unrolled before the microprinter inside the machine. Cross-references to that spool ramified in all directions. Thornberg sent the preliminary report back with a query: This matter looked interesting, did they want more information?
They did!
Next day the telecast announced a drastic shakeup in the Department of Defense. Lindahl was not heard from again.
And I, thought Thornberg grimly, have grabbed a very large tiger by the tail. Now they’ll have to check every-body—and I’m one man, trying to keep ahead of the whole Security Police!
Lindahl is a traitor. How did his chief ever let him get on the board? Secretary Hoheimer was pretty good friends with Lindahl, too. G^t Records to cross-check Hoheimer.
What’s this? Hoheimer himself! Five years ago, yes, but even so— the records show that he lived in an apartment unit where Sam Hall was janitor! Grab Hoheimer! Who’ll take his place? General Halliburton? That stupid old fool? Well, at least his dossier is clean. Can’t trust those slick characters.
Hoheimer has a brother in Security, general’s rank, good detection record. A blind? Who knows? Slap the brother in jail, at least, for the duration. Better check his staff— Central Records shows that his chief field agent, Jones, has five days unaccounted for a year ago; he claimed Security secrecy at the time, but a double cross-check shows it wasn’t so. Shoot Jones! He has a nephew in the Army, a captain. Pull that unit out of the firing line till we can study it man by man! We’ve had too many mutinies already.
Lindahl was also a close friend of Benson, in charge of the Tennessee Atomic Ordnance Works. Haul Benson in! Check every man connected with him! No trusting those scientists, they’re always blabbing secrets.
The first Hoheimer’s son is an industrialist, he owns a petroleum-synthesis plant in Texas. Nab him! His wife is a sister of Leslie, head of the War Production Co-ordination Board. Get Leslie, too. Sure, he’s doing a good job, but he may be sending information to the enemy. Or he may just be waiting for the signal to sabotage the whole works. We can’t trust anybody, I tell you!
What’s this? Records relays an Intelligence report that the mayor of Tampa was in cahoots with the rebels. It’s marked “ Unreliable, Rumor ’’—but Tampa did surrender without a fight. The mayor’s business partner is Gale, who has a cousin in the Army, commanding a robomb base in New Mexico. Check both the Gales, Records— So the cousin was absent four days without filing his whereabouts, was he? Military privileges or not, arrest him and find out where he was!
Attention, Records, attention, Records, urgent. Brigadier John Harms-worth Gale, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera, refused to divulge information .required by Security officers, claiming to have been at his base all the time. Can this be an error on your part?
Records to Security Central, ref: et cetera, et cetera. No possibility of error exists except in information received.
To Records, ref: et cetera, et cetera.
Gale’s story corroborated by three of his officers.
Put that whole base under arrest! Re-check those reports! Who sent them in, anyway?
To Records, ref: et cetera, et cetera. On attempt to arrest entire personnel, Robomb Base 37-J fired on Security detachment and repulsed it. At last reports, Gale was calling for rebel forces fifty miles off to assist him. Details will follow for the files as soon as possible.
So Gale was a traitor! Or was he driven to it by fear? Have Records find out who filed that information about him in the first place. We can’t trust anybody!
Thornberg was not much surprised when his door was kicked open and the Security squad entered. He had been expecting it for days now. One man can’t keep ahead of the game forever. No doubt the accumulated inconsistencies had finally drawn suspicion his way; or perhaps, ironically, the chains of accusation he had forged had by chance led to him; or perhaps Rodney or another person here had decided something was amiss with the chief and lodged a tip.
He felt no blame for whoever it was if that had been the case. The tragedy of civil war was that it turned brother against brother; millions of good and decent men were with the government because they had pledged themselves to be. Mostly, he felt tired.
He looked down the barrel of the gun and then raised weary eyes to the hard face behind it. “1 take it I’m under arrest?” he asked tonelessly.
“Get up!” The face was flat and brutal, there was sadism in the heavy mouth. A typical blackcoat.
June whimpered. The man who held her was twisting her arm behind her back. “Don’t do that,” said Thornberg. “She’s innocent.”
“Get up, I said!” The gun thrust closer.
“Don’t come near me, either.” Thornberg lifted his right hand. It was clenched around a little ball. “See this? It’s a gimmick I made. No, not a bomb, just a small radio control. If my hand relaxes, the rubber will expand and pull a switch shut.”
The men recoiled a little.
“Let the girl go, I said,” repeated Thornberg patiently.
“ You surrender first!”
June screamed as the cop twisted harder.
“No,” said Thornberg. “This is more important than any one of us. I was prepared, you see. I expect to die. So if I let go of this ball, the radio signal closes a relay and a powerful magnetic field is generated in Matilda —in the records machine. Every record the government has will be wiped clean. I hate to think what your fellows will do to you if you let that happen.”
Slowly, the cop released June. She slumped to the floor, crying.
“It’s a bluff!” said the man with the gun. There was sweat on his face.
“Try it and find out.” Thornberg forced a smile. “I don’t care.”
“You traitor!”
“And a very effective one, wasn’t I? I’ve got the government turned end for end and upside down. The Army’s in an uproar, officers deserting right and left for fear they’ll be arrested next. Administration is hog-tied and trembling. Security is chasing its own tail around half a continent. Assassination and betrayal are daily occurrences. Men go over to the rebels in droves. The Army of Liberation is sweeping a demoralized and ineffectual ^resistance before it everywhere. I predict that New Washington will capitulate within a week.”
“And your doing!” Finger tense on the trigger.
“Oh, no. No single man can change history. But I was a rather important factor, yes. Or let’s say—Sam Hall was.”
“What are you going to do?”
“That depends on you, my friend. If you shoot me, gas me, knock me out, or anything of that sort, my hand will naturally relax. Otherwise, we’ll just wait till one side or the other gets tired.”
“You’re bluffing!” snapped the squad leader.
“You could, of course, have the technicians here check Matilda and see if I’m telling the truth,” said
Thornberg. “And if I am, you could have them disconnect my electromagnet. Only I warn you, at the first sign of any such operation on your part, I’ll let go of this ball. Look in my mouth.” He opened it. “A glass vial, full of poison. After I let the ball go, I’ll close my teeth together hard. So you see, I have nothing to fear from you.”
Bafflement and rage flitted over the faces that watched him. They weren’t used to thinking, those men.
“Of course,” said Thornberg, “there is one other possibility for you. At last reports, a rebel jet squadron was based not a hundred miles from here. We could call it and have them come and take this place over. That might be to your own advantage, too. There is going to be a day of reckoning with you blackcoats, and my influence could shield you however little you deserve it.”
They stared at each other. After a very long while, the squad leader shook his head. “No!”
The man behind him pulled out a gun and shot him in the back.
Thornberg smiled.
“As a matter of fact,” he told Sorensen, “I was bluffing. All I had was a tennis ball with a few small electrical parts glued on it. Not that it made much difference at that stage, except to me.”
“Matilda will be handy for us in mopping up,” said Sorensen. “Want to stay on?”
“Sure, at least till my son arrives. That’ll be next week.”
“You’ll be glad to hear we’ve finally contacted the Guard in space: just a short radio message, but the commander has agreed to obey whatever government is in power when he arrives. That’ll be us, so your boy won’t have to do any fighting.”
There were no words for that. Instead Thornberg said, with a hard-held casualness, “You know, I’m surprised that you should have been an undergrounder.”
“There were a few of us even in Security,” said Sorensen. “We were organized in small cells, spotted throughout the nation, and wangled things so we could hypnoquiz each other.” He grimaced. “It wasn’t a pleasant job, though. Some of the things I had to do— Well, that’s over with now.”
He leaned back in his chair, putting his booted feet on the desk. A Liberation uniform was usually pretty sloppy, they didn’t worry about spit-and-polish, but he had managed to be immaculate. “There was a certain amount of suspicion about Sam Hall at first,” he said. “The song, you know, and other items. My bosses weren’t stupid. I got myself detailed to investigate you; a close check-up gave me grounds to suspect you of revolutionary thoughts, so naturally I gave you a clean bill of health. Later on I cooked up this fantasy of the psychological mask and got several high-ranking men worried about it. When you followed my lead on that, I was sure you were on our side.” He grinned. “So naturally our army never attacked Matilda!”
“ You must have joined your forces quite recently.”
“Yeah, I had to scram out of Security during the uproar and witch hunt you started. You almost cost me my life, Thorny, know that? Well worth it, though, just to see those cockroaches busily stepping on each other.”
Thornberg leaned gravely over his desk. “I always had to assume you rebels were sincere,” he said. “I’ve never been sure. But now I can check up. Do you intend to destroy Matilda?”
Sorensen nodded. “After we’ve used her to help us find some people we want rather badly, and to get reorganized—of course. She’s too powerful an instrument. It’s time to loosen the strings of government.”
“Thank you,” said Thornberg.
He chuckled after a moment. “And that will be the end of Sam Hall,” he said. “He’ll go to whatever Valhalla is reserved for the great characters of fiction. I can see him squabbling with Sherlock Holmes and shocking King Arthur and striking up a beautiful friendship with Long John Silver. You know how the ballad ends?” He sang softly: “Now up in heaven I dwell, in heaven I dwell—” Unfortunately, the conclusion is pretty rugged. Sam Hall never was satisfied.
THE END
Poul Anderson, Sam Hall
