_[16]_
Colonel Walther Mannheim unlocked the door of his small suite of roomsin the Officers' Barracks. God! he was tired. It wasn't so much physicalexhaustion as mental and emotional release from the tension he had beenunder for the preceding few hours. Or had it been years?
He dropped his heavy briefcase on a nearby chair, took off his cap anddropped it on the briefcase.
He stood there for a moment, looking tiredly around. Everything was inorder, as usual. He seldom came to Government City any more. Twenty orso visits in the last ten years, and only a dozen of them had been longenough to force him to spend the night in his old suite at the WorldPolice Headquarters at the southern end of the island. He didn't like tostay in Government City; it made him uneasy, being this close to theNipe's underground nest. The Nipe had too many taps into governmentcommunication channels, too many ways of seeing and hearing what went onhere in the nerve center of civilization.
One of the most difficult parts of this whole operation had been thecareful balancing of information flow through those channels that theNipe had tapped. To stop using them would betray immediately to thatalien mind that his taps had been detected. The information flow must goon as usual. There was no way to censor the information, either,although it was known that the Nipe relied on them for planning hisraids. But since there was no way of knowing, even after years ofobservation, what sort of thing the Nipe would be wanting next, therewas no way of knowing which information should be removed from thetapped channels.
And, most certainly, removing _all_ information about every possiblematerial that the Nipe might want would make him even more suspiciousthan simply shutting down the channels altogether. To shut them downwould only indicate that the human government had detected his taps; tocensor them heavily would indicate that a trap was being laid.
It was even impossible to censor out news about the Nipe. That, too,would have invited suspicion. So a special corps of men had been set up,a group whose sole job was to investigate every raid of the Nipe. Everyraid produced a flurry of activity by this special group. They rushedout to look over the scene of the raid, prowled around, and dideverything that might be expected of an investigative body. Theirreports were sent in over the usual channels. All the actual data theycame up with was sent straight through the normal channels--but theconclusions they reached from that data were not. Always, in spite ofeverything, the messages indicated that the police were as baffled asbefore.
All other information relating to the Nipe went through special channelsknown to be untapped by the Nipe.
And yet, there was no way to be absolutely certain of the sum total ofthe information that the Nipe received. Believing, as he did, in theexistence of Real People, he would necessarily assume that _their_communication systems were hidden from him, and the more difficult theywere to find, the more certain he would be that they existed. And it wasimpossible to know what information the Nipe picked up when he was outon a raid, away from the spying devices that had been hidden in histunnels.
Mannheim walked across the small living room to the sideboard that stoodagainst one wall and opened a door. Fresh ice, soda, and a bottle ofScotch were waiting for him. He took one of the ten-ounce glasses,dropped in three of the hard-frozen cubes of ice, added a preciselymeasured ounce and a half of Scotch, and filled the glass to within aninch of the brim with soda. Holding the glass in one hand, he walkedaround the little apartment, checking everything with a sort ofautomatic abstractedness. The air conditioner was pouring sweet, cool,fresh air into the room; the windows--heavy, thick slabs of paraglasswelded directly into the wall--admitted the light from the courtyardoutside, but admitted nothing else. There was no need for them to open,because of the air conditioning. A century before, some buildings stillhad fire escapes running down their outsides, but modern fireproofinghad rendered such anachronisms unnecessary.
But his mind was only partly on his surroundings. He went into thebedroom, sat down on the edge of the bed, took a long drink from thecold glass in his hand, and then put it on the nightstand. Absently hebegan pulling off his boots. His thoughts were on the Executive Sessionhe had attended that afternoon.
_"How much longer, do you think, Colonel?"_
_"A few weeks, sir. Perhaps less."_
_"There was another raid in Miami, Colonel. Another man died. We couldhave prevented that death, Colonel. We could have prevented a great manydeaths in the past six years."_
And what answer was there to that? The Executive Council knew that thedeaths were preventable in only one way--by killing the Nipe. And theyhad long ago agreed that the knowledge in that alien mind was worth thesacrifice. But, as he had known would happen when they made the decisionsix years before, there were some of them who had, inevitably, weakened.Not all--not even a majority--but a minority that was becoming stronger.
It had been, to a great degree, Mannheim's arguments that had convincedthem then, and now they were tending to shift the blame for theirdecision to Mannheim's shoulders.
Most of the Executives were tough-minded, realistic men. They were notgoing to step out now unless there were good reason for it. But if thesubtle undercutting of the vacillating minority weakened Mannheim's ownresolve, or if he failed to give solid, well-reasoned answers to theirquestions, then the whole project would begin to crumble rapidly.
He had not directly answered the Executive who had pointed out that manylives could have been saved if the Nipe had been killed six years ago.There was no use in fighting back on such puerile terms.
_"Gentlemen, within a few weeks, we will be ready to send Stanton inafter the Nipe. If that fails, we can blast him out of his strongholdwithin minutes afterwards. But if we stop now, if we allow our judgmentto be colored at this point, then all those who have died in the pastsix years will have died in vain."_
He had gone on, exploring and explaining the ramifications of the plansfor the next few weeks, but he had carefully kept it on the same level.It had been an emotional sort of speech, but it had been purposely so,in answer to the sort of emotionalism that the weakening minority hadattempted to use on him.
Men had died, yes. But what of that? Men had died before for far lessworthwhile causes. And men, do what they will, will die eventually. Inthe back of his mind, he had recalled the battle-cry of some sergeant ofthe old United States Marines during an early twentieth-century war. Ashe led his men over the top, he had shouted, "_Come on, you sons ofbitches! Do you wanna live forever?_"
But Mannheim hadn't mentioned it aloud to the Executive Council.
Nor had he pointed out that ten thousand times as many people had diedduring the same period through preventable accidents. That would nothave had the effect he wanted.
These particular men had died for this particular purpose. They had notasked to die. They had not known they were being sacrificed. None ofthem could be said to have died a hero's death. They had died simplybecause they were in a particular place at a particular time.
They had been allowed to die for a specific purpose. To abort thatpurpose at this time would be to make their deaths, retroactively,murder.
Mannheim put his head on the pillow and lifted his feet up on the bed.All he wanted was a few minutes of relaxation. He'd get ready for sleeplater. He pressed the control button on the bedframe that lifted thehead of the bed up so that he was in a semi-reclining position. Hepicked up his drink and took a second long pull from it.
Then he touched the phone switch and put the receiver to his ear.
"Beta-beta," he said when he heard the tone.
He heard the hum, and he knew that the ultraprivate phone on the desk ofDr. Farnsworth, in St. Louis, was signaling. Then Farnsworth's voicecame over the linkage.
"_F_ here."
"_M_ here," Mannheim replied. Then he asked guardedly, "Any sign of ourboy?"
"None."
"Keep on him," Mannheim said. "Let me know immediately."
"Will do. Any further?"
"No. Carry on." Mannheim cut o
ff the phone.
Where the hell had Stanton disappeared to, and why? He had wanted tobring the young man to Government City to show him off before theExecutives. It would have helped. But Stanton had disappeared.
Mannheim was well aware that Stanton had been in the habit of leavingthe Institute for long walks during the evenings, but this was the firsttime he had been gone for twenty-four hours. And even Yoritomo, thatmaster psychologist, had been unable to give any solid reason forStanton's disappearance.
"You must remember, my dear Colonel," Yoritomo had said, "our young Mr.Stanton is a great deal more complex in his thinking than is our friendthe Nipe."
_A hell of a job for a police officer_, Mannheim thought to himself. _Iknow where the criminal is, but I have to hunt for the only cop on Earthwho can arrest him._
He drained his glass, put it on the nightstand, and closed his eyes tothink.
* * * * *
An operator on duty at the spy screens that watched every move of theNipe while he was in the tunnels underneath Government City thumbed downa switch and said, "All stations alert. Subject is moving southwardtoward exit, carrying raiding equipment."
It was all that was necessary. The Nipe could not be followed after heleft his lair, but the proper groups would be standing by. Somewhere,the Nipe would hit and raid again. Somewhere, there were human lives indanger.
All anyone could do was wait.
* * * * *
Cautiously and carefully, the Nipe lifted his head out of the cool saltwater of the Hudson River, near the point where it widened into New YorkHarbor--still so called after the city that had been the greatest on theNorth American continent before the violence of a sun bomb haddemolished it forever.
He looked around carefully to get his bearings, then submerged again.The opening into the ancient sewer was nearby. Once into that network,he would know exactly where he was heading. It had taken weeks to findhis way around within the unexplored maze of the old sewers, and he hadbeen uncertain whether they would lead him to the place he intended tovisit, but luck had been with him.
Now he knew exactly where he wanted to go, and exactly what he wouldfind there.
He had avoided Government City itself since his first appearance there,shortly after his arrival, just as he had, as much as possible, avoidedever striking in the same place more than once. But now that it hadbecome necessary, he went about his work with the same cooldetermination that had always marked his activities.
He knew his destination, too. He knew the two rooms thoroughly, havingexplored them carefully and gone away undetected. And now that he knewthe one he sought was in those rooms, he was ready to make his finalinvestigation of the man.
He swam on through the utter blackness of the brackish water until hishead broke surface again. Then he went on along the great conduits thatwere above the level of the sea.
* * * * *
Captain Davidson Greer sat in the gun tower that overlooked theOfficers' Barracks and the courtyard surrounding the five-storybuilding. He was a tall, solidly built man in his early thirties, withdark gray-green eyes and dark blond hair. He didn't particularly carefor gun-tower duty, but this sort of thing couldn't be left to anyonewho was not in on the secret of the Nipe. As long as Colonel Mannheimwas here in Government City, there would be special officers guardinghim instead of the usual guard contingent.
Not that Captain Greer was actually expecting the Nipe to make anyattempt on the colonel's life; that was too remote to be worried about.But the gun towers had been erected fifty or more years before becausethere were always those who wanted to attempt assassination. Officers ofthe World Police had not enjoyed great popularity during thereconstruction period after the Holocaust. The petty potentates who hadset themselves up as autocratic rulers in various spots over the Earthhad quite often decided that the best way to get the WP off their backswas to kill someone, and quite often that someone was a Police officer.Disgruntled nationalists and fanatics of all kinds had tried at varioustimes to kill one officer or another. The protection was needed then.
Even now there were occasional assassins who attempted to invade WorldPolice Headquarters, but they were usually stopped long before they gotinto the enclosure itself.
Still, there was always the chance. There had been, in the past fewyears, an undercurrent of rebellion all over Earth because of the Nipe.The monster hadn't been killed, and there were those who screamed thatthe failure was due to the inefficiency of the Police.
One attempt had already been made on the life of a Major Thorensenbecause he had failed to get the Nipe after a raid in Leopoldville. Thewould-be assassin had been cut down just before he threw a grenade thatwould have killed half a dozen men. Captain Greer had been assigned tomake sure that no such attempt would succeed with Colonel Mannheim.
He could see the length of the hallway that led to Colonel Mannheim'ssuite. The hallway had been purposely designed for watching from the guntower. To one who was inside, it looked like an ordinary hallway,stretching down the length of the building. But it was walled with aspecial plastic that, while opaque to visible light, was perfectlytransparent to infra-red. To the ordinary unaided eye, the walls of thebuilding presented a blank face to the gun tower, but to the eye of aninfra-red scope, the hallways of all five floors looked as though theywere long, glass-enclosed terraces. And those walls were neither theferro-concrete of the main building nor the pressure glass of thewindows, but ordinary heavy-gauge plastic. To the bullets that could bespewed forth from the muzzle of the heavy-caliber, high-powered machinegun in the tower, those walls were practically nonexistent.
Captain Greer surveyed the hallways with his infra-red binoculars.Nothing. The halls were empty. He lowered the binoculars and lit acigarette. Then he put his eyes to the aiming scope of the gun andswiveled the muzzle a little. The aiming scope showed nothing either.
He leaned back and exhaled a cloud of smoke.
* * * * *
Colonel Mannheim blinked and looked at the ceiling. It took him a minuteto re-orient himself. Then he grinned rather sheepishly, realizing thathe had dozed off with his clothes on. Even worse, the pressure at hiship told him that he hadn't even bothered to take his sidearm off. Hesat up and swung his feet to the floor, then glanced at his wrist. Threein the morning.
_And the moral of that, my dear Walther_, he told himself, _is that atired man should put on his pajamas first, before he lies down anddrinks a Scotch_.
He stood up. Might as well put his pajamas on and get to bed. He wouldhave to be back in St. Louis by ten in the morning, so he ought to getas much sleep as possible.
The phone chimed.
He scooped it up and became instantly awake as he heard the voice ofCaptain Greer from the gun tower that faced the outer wall. "Colonel,the Nipe is just outside the wall of your apartment, in the hallway. Ihave him in my sights." He was trying to stay calm, Mannheim could tellby his voice, but he rattled the words off with machine-gun rapidity.
Mannheim thought rapidly. Whatever the Nipe was up to, it wouldn'tinclude planting a bomb or anything that might kill anyone accidentally.If there was a life in danger, it was his own, and the danger would comefrom the Nipe's hands, not from any device or weapon.
He was thankful that it was Captain Greer up in that tower, not anordinary guard who would have fired the instant he saw the alien throughthe infra-red-transparent walls. Even so, he knew that the captain'sfingers must be tightening on those triggers. No human being could dootherwise with that monster in his sights.
Mannheim spoke very calmly and deliberately. "Captain, listen verycarefully. Do _not_--I repeat, do _not_, under any circumstanceswhatever, fire that gun. Understand?"
"Yes, sir."
"What's he doing?"
"I can't tell, sir. He has some sort of gadget in his hands, but he justseems to be squatting there."
"At the door?"
"No. To the left of it, at the wall."
"You have your cameras going?"
"Yes, sir."
"All right. Get everything that happens. Under no circumstances shoot orgive the alarm--_even if he kills me_. Let him go. I don't think thatwill happen, but if it does, let him go. I think I can talk to him. Idon't think there's much danger. I'm going to leave the phone open soyou can record everything, and--"
There was a muffled noise from the living room. He heard Captain Greer'sgasp as he turned. He could see through the bedroom door to the wall ofthe living room. A large section of the ferro-concrete wall had saggedaway and collapsed, having suddenly lost its tensile strength. On thetop of the rubble, frozen for a long instant, stood the Nipe, watchingwith those four glowing violet eyes.
Mannheim let go the phone and turned to face the monster, and in thatinstant he realized his mistake.
* * * * *
The Nipe stared at the human being. Was this, at last, a Real Person? Itwas surprising that the man should be awake. Only a minute before, theinstruments had shown him to be in the odd cataleptic state that thesecreatures lapsed into periodically, similar to, but not identical with,his own rest state. And yet he was now awake and fully dressed. Surelythat indicated--
And then the man turned, and the Nipe saw the weapon in the holster athis waist. There was a blinding instant of despair as he realized thathis hopes had been shattered--
--and then he launched himself across the room.
* * * * *
Colonel Mannheim's hand darted toward the gun at his hip. It was purelyreflex action. Even as he did it, he was aware that he would never getthe weapon out in time to bring it to bear on the onrushing monster, andhe was content that it should be so.
* * * * *
Twenty-five minutes later, the Nipe, after carefully licking off thefingers of his first pair of hands, went back into the hallway andheaded down toward the sewers again.
The emotion he felt is inexpressible in human terms. Although he had notwished to kill the man, it cannot be said that the Nipe felt contrition.Although he had had no desire to harm the family, if any, of the lateColonel Mannheim, it cannot be said that the Nipe felt sadness orcompassion.
Nor, again, although his stomachs churned and his body felt sluggishand heavy, can it be said that he felt any regret for what he had done.
That is not to say that he felt _no_ emotion. He did. His emotions wereas strong and as deep as those of a very sensitive human being. Hisemotions could bring him pain and they could bring him pleasure. Theycould crush him or exalt him. His emotions were just as real and aseffective as any human emotions.
But they were _not_ human emotions.
They were emotions, but not _human_ emotions.
It is impossible to render into any human terms the simple statement:"The Nipe felt that he had properly rendered homage to a validly slainfoe."
That cannot even begin to indicate the emotion the Nipe felt as he moveddown toward the sewer and escape.
* * * * *
Captain Davidson Greer, his eyes staring with glassy hatred through theinfra-red gunsight, was registering a very human emotion. His triggerfingers were twitching spasmodically--squeezing, squeezing, squeezing.
But his fingers were not on the triggers.