Prescription for Chaos (52 page)

The general said tensely, "See the face of the individual, Bugs?"

Cardan hesitated.

Whitely's voice sprang out at him. "Did this individual look human, Bugs?"

Cardan said, "Depends on what you mean by human. All the features were there, and the body looked human, but the overall effect was that of a lynx or a bobcat. Why?"

"You know why. Either this is Orson Welles' shocker come to life, or it all started out on Earth. If so, I think we know the foreign power responsible."

Cardan thought of the vivid streak across the sky, the intense bluish glare of the explosion, the tripod with its half-cylindrical launcher, and the drum-shaped vehicles churning toward the highway jammed with stalled cars. Cardan tossed his dead cigar into the ashtray. "Nuts," he said irritatedly. "If the Russians had this stuff, they could put it into production and crowd us right off the map into the Pacific Ocean. They wouldn't tip their hand like this. You're going off the deep end, Tarface."

"Hell, it could be a test. To see if we've got the stuff ourselves.
Then
they spring the main attack."

"And what if we happen to be jumpy and the minute this 'test' of theirs starts, we hit them with everything we've got?"

Whitely was silent a moment, then he laughed. "I just wanted to see how it sounded to you."

"It sounds lousy. Suppose in the course of this test we should turn out to have the devices ourselves. Then we overpower the 'aliens,' tear off their Halloween masks, and they turn out to talk Russian. Next we put on a big propaganda exhibition featuring the 'alien spaceship,' plus vehicles, guns, and alien invaders complete with masks. The Russians would look foolish for the next five years."

"It doesn't sound too good, does it?"

"They just aren't stupid, that's all. They'd have their neck stuck out a mile, and no way to pull it in."

"You got any more information?"

"Not yet. Maybe later."

"O.K., Bugs. If you can get any more close views, it will be a big help. Keep me in touch. And keep away from the highway."

Cardan frowned at the dead phone. That was the second time Whitely had told him to stay away from the road. He put the phone on its cradle, and looked up to see Maclane holding another circuit, and looking serious. "Was that the general?"

Cardan nodded.

Maclane said, "You don't look too disturbed, Chief."

Cardan frowned. "Why? Have you got a better view on that set?"

"We've got a ringside seat."

"Let's see."

Cardan put the headset on, and got a view across the northern end of the traffic jam out over the lowland to the east, and to the southeast along the bend of the highway. Several of the big cylindrical vehicles were on the highway above the traffic jam, and others were spread out, approaching across the low snow-covered ground. About five hundred feet from the highway a helicopter was burning. Another plane was burning about a thousand yards away. Still further back, he could see a line of towers that carried power lines across the low-lying farmland. In the foreground, a parachute was caught in some brush, billowing in the wind near the foot of the embankment below the highway.

Cardan glanced at the stalled and deserted cars, then back at the big cylindrical drums, rolling northward on the road. They seemed to be moving only about fifteen or twenty miles an hour, but they were moving steadily. More of them were working along a slanting cable up the bank and onto the road. As Cardan watched, one of the cylinders wheeled toward the jammed cars. There was a blur at the forward gun of the vehicle, and a puff of rolling black smoke burst amongst the nearest cars which lifted up and smashed heavily back and sidewise. There was another blast. A figure in airman's uniform jumped up to dart back amongst the cars. There was a third puff of smoke and the figure disintegrated.

The cylinder rolled down the grass strip toward the south, followed by another cylinder, and then another. Far out across the lowland, a blast of smoke billowed at the base of a tower supporting the power lines. The tower tilted and leaned out. There was a dazzling display of arcing sparks, then the power line came down.

Nearby, several of the cylinders crossed the highway, spread out, and started up the hill on the other side, passing out of Cardan's field of vision.

Several powerfully-built figures, carrying crates, walked onto the shoulder of the northbound side of this highway, and began setting up a half-cylinder on a tripod.

Maclane's voice reached Cardan. "I'm watching this thing, Chief, with my hands on the contacts. I want you to notice something."

Donovan's voice cut in, "I don't know if you can see this. There's a big Marine Corps helicopter coming in fast, to the right of this view. There—boy, it hit like a rock! Wait a minute. Here come parachutists! They're drifting down all over the place. Can you see that, Chief?"

Cardan could now see in the sky well beyond the fallen power lines the parachutes blossoming out in what appeared to be different shades of gray and drifting to the south. Big planes were gliding down fast overhead.

Maclane said urgently, "This is important, Chief. You see that mess of burning trash blown out of the cars over there?"

Cardan tore his gaze from the parachutes, and looked at the overturned cars. "You mean the front seat cushion, and some upholstery ripped half-off a door? What of it, Mac?"

"Watch it."

Cardan briefly glanced up at a plane that was banking steeply, toward the road. The plane blew up in a blast of black smoke, and Cardan looked back at the burning car, and growled. "What's the point of this, Mac?"

"Just watch."

A small piece of blazing upholstery flapped sharply, then tore away, and blew along the road in the wind, twisting and tumbling. It stopped, and momentarily seemed to lean against the wind, then rolled away, and stopped again, on an empty stretch of road.

Cardan frowned as the strip of cloth flapped in the air, rising slowly above the roadway,
but remained stationary and did not blow back with the wind
.

Cardan watched intently.

The cloth flapped in the air, as if held on an invisible pin.

Maclane said, "I've been trying to tell Don, I can influence this picture."

Donovan suddenly groaned, then cursed in a low voice. Cardan snapped his attention back to the scene in the distance, beyond the power line, but could see only a confused whirl of motion. He handed the headset he was using to Maclane, and put on the second headset of the circuit Donovan was using.

The confused whirl Cardan had seen beyond the power lines now sprang into clear view. Men in battle dress were running forward, then dropping to the ground to take aim at a line of cylinders rolling toward them. Cardan could see mortars, machine guns, 3.5-inch rocket launchers, and some weapon or device that he didn't recognize. At first glance, he felt a grim sense of pleasure. Then he looked again.

The men were struggling with their weapons. There was no sign of rifle, mortar, or machine-gun fire, and the rockets were falling short and failing to explode. The men glanced up at each other, then looked out over the lowland.

The cylinders were closer now, and faint blurs flickered at the snouts of their guns.

Close by, directly in Cardan's field of view, chunks of dirt and snow flew up. Then the smoke blew away, and he could see endless puffs of black erupt across his field of view in a continuous churning that stopped thought, and left him looking on blankly as men, guns, and equipment blew into fragments.

Then the cylinders were rolling by.

Behind them walked coveralled individuals seven or eight feet in apparent height, carrying like tommy-guns large-breeched, long-muzzled weapons, with which they methodically shot the wounded.

Then they had passed by, too, and there was nothing left but fragments, motionless figures, torn uniform cloth lifting in the wind that swept across the lowland, and dirt falling down the sides of shellholes.

Cardan took off the headphones, snapped on the intercom, and said, "Miss Bowen, see if you can get General Whitely for me."

"Yes, Mr. Cardan."

Donovan got to his feet, and put his headphones on the table, "I can't watch that any more."

"Somebody has to keep an eye on it," said Cardan, "so we'll know if anything new develops."

"I'm going to watch it from a little closer range," said Donovan.

Cardan opened his mouth. Donovan went out, slamming the door.

Cardan got out a fresh cigar, stuck it in his mouth, and lit it. He blew out a cloud of smoke. "That's the trouble with having a bunch of individualists around. When the crisis comes, they all boil off in their own direction."

Maclane took off his headset. "The only one to boil off in his own direction so far is Donovan."

"Wait a while," said Cardan.

The intercom buzzed. Miss Bowen said, "Mr. Cardan, the men are back with the groceries."

"Have them put the stuff down in the subbasement. How about the men who went out to the sporting goods stores?"

"They aren't back yet, sir."

"O.K. Keep trying to get Whitely."

"Yes, sir."

Maclane, holding the headset in one hand, was squinting at the wall. "I wonder, Chief," he murmured, "what Donovan's planning to do?"

Cardan glanced at Maclane, and took a fresh grip on his cigar.

Maclane said thoughtfully, "No ordinary car will get him near the place by now, I suppose. But our steam car can do it. And they'll be
sure
nothing we have can move."

Cardan looked at Maclane sourly. "Mac, listen a—"

Maclane abruptly tossed the headset on the table and jumped up.

"Stay at that set!" Cardan ordered.

The door slammed as Maclane went out.

"Lousy individualists!" roared Cardan. He now had two circuits giving a close-range view of the action, and no one to do the watching but himself.

The intercom buzzed. Miss Bowen said, "The men with the sporting goods are back, Mr. Cardan."

"Good. Have them put them down in the subbasement, and leave a few men to keep an eye on things."

"They're on the way up here right now, sir."

"Oh," said Cardan coldly. "Well, when they get here, send them in."

"Yes, sir."

"And keep trying for Whitely."

"Yes, sir."

Cardan picked up the headset Maclane had dropped, and studied the remaining wisps of smoking upholstery from the wrecked car. He eyed them thoughtfully, and adjusted the cigar in his mouth. Watching one particular bit of upholstery intently, he willed it to move to the left. A puff of wind blew it to the right and backwards. Cardan's teeth tightened on the cigar. Drawing all his conscious awareness into a tight focus centered on the wisp of blackened cloth, he commanded it to move forward, toward him. A puff of wind carried it farther away. Cardan absently took out his cigar. Then he centered his entire consciousness on that little bit of cloth, till he was aware of nothing else. The view seemed to waver and enlarge as Cardan focused his mind on the cloth, seeing each separate fiber, taking hold of it as he became fully aware of its every visible characteristic, and lifted it up and forward, toward him, against the wind, and held it in the air. He turned it from side-to-side before him, over and over, winding it into a tight ball and spreading it out flat almost as if it were a finger on a hand that he controlled through the direct action of nerves on muscles.

Somewhere in the background, Cardan could hear voices. He drew a deep breath, and carefully took off the headset. He felt somewhat like a man awakening from anesthesia, or from a vivid dream. But his last glimpse with the headset on showed him the bit of cloth fluttering down from a position well upwind of the smoldering wreckage of the cars.

Miss Bowen was saying urgently, "Mr. Cardan, I have General Whitely on the line. And the men are back from the sporting goods stores, and they're quite insistent—"

Cardan picked up his cigar. "Put Whitely on, then let them in but tell them to be quiet."

Miss Bowen put the phone in Cardan's hand, then stepped outside to quiet angry voices.

"Hello?" said Cardan into the phone.

The door opened, and Cardan's men shoved in, rifles and shotguns thrust out in all directions.

"Bugs?" Whitely's voice jumped out of the phone.

"Right here," said Cardan, holding up his hand to quiet his men.

"Listen," said the general, "they've stepped up the power of that circle. We can't get anything through or over, and what we had inside is used up."

"What about missiles?"

"We attacked them hand-to-hand a little bit ago, Bugs. Not a gun would fire. As a last resort, we had a nuclear device in there, and if nothing else worked, we intended to set it off. We set it off. Nothing happened."

Cardan frowned. "How about missiles?"

"We've tried missiles. They seem to get through, but they don't explode—unless you want us to beat them to death with warheads."

Cardan set his cigar in the tray. "What are you going to do?"

"So far we've been fighting blind and off-balance. There are too many unknowns. We don't know who we're fighting, what they've got, or what they'll spring on us next. They've knocked us into a kind of punch-drunk stupor, and the only way out of it I can see is to get in there fast, smash their airhead while it's still little, and grab enough material and prisoners so we can start to figure out what's going on."

"What are you going to fight them with?"

"We're going to try to get at them close-range with gas and anything else that's not based on explosives. But, Bugs, how do we get close enough to do it in time? You drove through that barrier. How many of those steam cars do you have?"

"Just one, and I'm pretty sure someone just took off in it. The devil with that. Listen, Tarface."

"I'm listening."

"What you want is steam locomotives. Get after every roundhouse and railroad repair yard for one that isn't torn down yet. Get in touch with the Canadians. I think they're still using them, and theirs will be in good shape. There's a track that runs only a few miles to the east of that landing site, and—"