Ron Goulart - A Talent For The Invisible

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A Talent For The

Invisible

Ron Goulart

CHAPTER 1

Robots were chasing him.

It was a clean warm morning, about 6:30 AM, in the late spring of the

year 2020 and Jake Conger was jogging along one of the high, wide,

plastic ramps which connected the towers of Manhattan. Conger was a

lean tan man of thirty one, wearing a one-piece running suit. The robots, a

pair of them, were roughly humanoid, cocoa-colored, and about fifty yards

behind him.

One of the brown robots had a pixphone screen mounted in his chest.

"Assignment," he called to Conger, narrowing the distance between them

to fifty feet.

Conger continued jogging along the lemon-yellow noryl plastic ramp.

He was over a thousand feet above the ground level of the city. The dozens

of other pastel-tinted pedestrian ramps above and below him made bright

cat's cradles in the warming May morning.

"Assignment," repeated the pixphone robot as he and his partner

caught up.

"So tell me," said Conger, still running.

The cocoa-brown robot gestured at a tufted air-float bench they were

passing. "Wouldn't you like to stop by the side of the ramp while we

confab."

"No," Conger told him. "I still have five miles to do."

"How many miles do you run every day?"

"Ten."

The brown robot nodded. "That sounds very good. Running is supposed

to be splendid for your inner workings. Heart, lungs and similar mec . . ."

"What about the assignment?"

"Well, yes, all right." The robot matched his stride to Conger's. His

partner dropped a few yards behind, being full of data he couldn't run as

fast. "The Wild Talent Division of the United States Remedial Functions

Agency sent us to fetch you, Agent Conger. They have a highly secret and

vastly important job for you."

"This is supposed to be my layoff month."

"The boss specifically requested you."

"Why me?"

"You're the only invisible agent RFA has free and unassigned at the

moment."

"I was planning to take a hopper tour of Connecticut today. There's a

new seaweed restaurant in

Mystic I want to try." He ran silently for a few seconds. "Okay. I'll take

the job. What's the problem?"

"People are coming back to life."

Conger slowed his jogging pace some. "Huh?"

"Be better if I let the boss explain." He poked two cocoa fingers into the

finger holes in his side and the plate-size phone screen in his chest came

alive.

A little rumpled frazzled man of fifty showed on the picture screen. He

was wrapped in a tacky synth-fur bathrobe, slumped in the breakfast nook

of his Wild Talents Division office. He blinked at Conger with his faded

little eyes. "Yark," he said. "Why are you bouncing up and down, Jake?"

"I'm running," answered Conger. "Why are you spinning around and

around?"

Blinking again Geer, the WTD boss, replied, "I had my breakfast nook

designed to rotate so I'd always be facing a sunny window, remember?" He

made a yawning face, biting at air. "The dingus is a little out of whack and

keeps mistaking any bright object for the sun. Right now it's fascinated

with the silver pendulum on my wall clock across the office."

Nodding, Conger asked, "Who's coming back to life?"

Geer ripped plyofilm off a self-heating waffleburger. "People who are

supposed to be dead."

"Speaking of that," said Conger. "Didn't you read the Surgeon General's

report on waffleburgers?"

"What's that yoohoo computer know about what it takes to wake me up

in the morning," said the rumpled Geer as he bit into his breakfast

sandwich. "Especially when I sleep in the office. I suppose I should give up

soyjava, too?"

"It won't kill you," said Conger. "What dead people?"

Geer sipped his cup of soyjava with an exaggerated slurp. The rotation

of his circular nook floor caused some of the grey-brown liquid to splash

up against his sunken cheeks. "This is a spooky one, Jake." He took

another slurp of the imitation coffee. "Even for the Wild Talents Division,

where everything tends to be spooky, this is extra odd. These dead people

seem to be coming back to life." He set aside his waffleburger to pick up a

tri-op photo. "You know who this yoohoo is?"

"It's hard to recognize him with syrup on his face."

Geer squinted at the portrait, moistened his thumb and wiped at it. "I

wish this was my layoff month. I'm tired of these business breakfasts. I've

already had a go-round with Agent Katzman this morning. He's the one

with the ability to walk through walls. Now he's developed a quirk."

"A quirk?" The lemon-yellow ramp made a sharp turn around the side

of a blue pseudoconcrete tower and Conger slowed a little.

"Lately he only gets halfway through the walls and then gets stuck," said

Geer. "He says it's because he has domestic troubles."

Conger leaned his head closer to the screen on the running robot's

chest. "That's Colonel Macaco Cavala, isn't it?"

"Who?"

"In the photo."

Geer scowled at the tri-op picture he was holding up. "Yes. Colonel

Macaco Cavala, the late Portuguese strongman."

"He's the guy who was going to overthrow the current dictator of

Portugal," said Conger.

"Yeah, that's why they killed him last month," said Geer, letting the

photo drop. It landed in his soyjava saucer.

"I remember seeing it on the news. He was shot down on the streets of

New Lisbon by an unidentified sniper."

"Right," replied the boss. "You'll be talking to him."

"The unidentified sniper?"

"We'll give you his name and address," said Geer. "The data robot has

it. The yoohoo lives in New Lisbon someplace."

Conger glanced sideways at the pixphone screen. "Wait now, boss. Did

our Remedial Functions Agency have something to do with knocking off

the colonel?"

"No." Geer shook his frazzled head. "I checked with the yoohoos in the

head office in Washington. RFA is clean, for a change, in this one. But it is

not impossible that National Security Office knows something about it.

They never confide in us, those NSO bastards." The boss lifted the photo

out of his saucer. "Jake, somebody has seen Colonel Macaco Cavala alive

and walking around."

"CBS-NBC, Inc. saw him flat on his back in his coffin."

"It's perplexing," admitted the boss. "I want you to teleport to New

Lisbon at 11 this morning, Jake. This Colonel Cavala thing fits in with

some other rumors we've been hearing. Talk to this yoohoo that's

supposed to have sniped the damn colonel, then contact the guy who

swears he saw him alive not three days ago." Geer took another bite out of

his waffleburger. "You realize how important this may be, Jake. Politically

and, perhaps, to all mankind."

The phone robot reminded the boss. "Tell him why we need an invisible

agent, boss."

"Oh, yeah." Geer took one further bite, chewed, swallowed. "If this

yoohoo in New Lisbon saw the late colonel where he thinks he saw him you

may have to turn invisible to get yourself in there." The boss waved a sheet

of orange-colored fax paper. "We only have nineteen invisible agents now,

Jake, since Agent Busino lost the ability to make the lower part of his body

from the knees down invisible. It takes two long years to process an

invisible agent, as you well know. If only Vincent X. Worth hadn't had that

fatal hopper accident and . . ."

"I know," said Conger. Worth had been the quirky young scientist and

researcher who'd developed many of the methods for manufacturing Wild

Talent Division agents. He was only a couple years older than Conger and

the two of them had been pretty good casual friends. Worth's private

aircruiser had exploded six months ago while he was enroute to a WTD

conference in the Philippines. "Okay, where has the colonel been seen?"

"You'll find out all about that when you get over to New Lisbon."

Conger said, "What happened to the notion this was my layoff month?"

"Jake, we've got an emergency situation here," explained the boss.

"Think of how important this may be to the future of United States foreign

policy and the prospect of a better life for all humanity. Think of all the

good men and true who've given their all for the Wild Talent Division.

Think of that ghostly echelon of good guys, which includes Marcus Jerico,

Donald E. Tannenbaum and the aforementioned Vincent X. Worth, cut

down in the very prime of life while they were unselfishly defending the

wonderful people and institutions of this, their own their native land.

Think, if you will, of the lonely bald eagle soaring . . ."

"Okay, okay," cut in Conger. "I'll take the damn job."

A single line of moisture zigzagged down the front of the pixphone oval.

The robot sniffled, rubbed at his vinyl eyeballs. "Excuse me, Agent Conger.

I'm programmed to be sentimental over patriotic speeches."

"That's okay." Conger took a plyochief from a slash pocket in his

running suit to wipe off the phone screen. "Anything else, boss?"

Geer thought, his sunken face wrinkling. "No, that yoohoo data robot I

sent will fill you in on the background, give you what names and addresses

we have. The only other thing I can think of is a word of warning."

"About what?"

"If the National Security Office sticks any of their agents on this same

problem, give them a wide berth and avoid them like the plague, Jake."

"I always do."

Geer was eating his breakfast sandwich again. "Aren't you winded yet?"

"Nope."

"Yark."

The aircab said, "Watch your step, sir."

Conger grabbed his all-purpose valise off the seat, then glanced out the

cab window. "You're six feet above the passenger ramp."

"Which is why I cautioned you to watch out, sir."

"Better get a little closer."

"Geeze," muttered the cab's control box. The hovering craft ratcheted,

snarled and bumped down to within six inches of the ramp leading into

the E65 St. teleport station. "A guy in good shape like you could jump a

few feet."

Near the entrance of the station a chunky partially bald man, who had

most of his hair on the backside of his head, was hitting a book vending

machine. "You only printed me out chapters XXXVIII through LXVII of

Moby Dick," he was complaining. "It says right on your front Two-Buck

Klassics, Complete & Unexpurgated." When the half-haired man noticed

Conger he blushed, stopped whacking at the book machine.

Giving him a nod, Conger passed on into the medium-sized station. He

crossed to the reservation desk and said to the girl there, "Reservation for

Jake Conger."

The girl behind the curving aluminum desk was blonde with upturned

synthetic breasts. She smiled while she flicked the retrieval switches in

front of her. "Yes, here we are. The 11 o'clock teleport for Lisbon. You've

seventeen minutes before you have to hop onto the platform," she said,

smiling still. "Would you like to sleep with me?"

Conger took his teleport chit, pasted it on the lapel of his two-piece

travel suit. "No, thanks," he said, returning the smile.

"You probably aren't in the mood," the attractive blonde said. "Travel

makes you nervous maybe."

"Seventeen minutes isn't nearly enough time," replied Conger. "Besides

which . . ."

"That's exactly what I told Mr. Shellebarger," said the blonde. "This is

his idea. He's, you know, the director of the Manhattan Office of Legalized

Prostitution and he thinks OLP could take in even more revenue if he puts

hookers into all the teleport stations on the island. OLP does so well at

Grand Central Station that he figured . . ."

"Trains are more romantic," said Conger. "There's a kind of leisurely

20th Century feeling about trains and train depots."

"Precisely what I told Mr. Shellebarger. I was a $200 girl on the Jersey

Mono for six months. We did really well."

Across the room six people left their tin benches to climb up onto one of

the three teleport platforms. Conger looked from them to the tag on his

lapel.

"Oh, you needn't worry," the blonde assured him. "I may be a hooker,

but I know the teleport business. I gave you the right tag. Would you at

least like me to kiss you goodbye. Only $1."

"I'm not too sentimental about travel, but thanks." Conger grinned and

left the desk.

"10:50 teleport to Rio de Janeiro," announced the speakers up under

the ceiling. "Platform 2, last call."

Another minute passed. A man bounded up the four steps to the middle

platform. The other six people shuffled their feet, coughed, rubbed their

elbows, scratched their noses.

A beeping came out of the mechanisms under the platform. There was a

sizzling sound. The seven passengers were no longer there.

Conger took his suitcase, filled chiefly with vitamins and food

supplements, and sat near the left-hand platform.

When the 11:00 teleport to New Lisbon was announced only Conger and

the semi-bald man stepped onto Platform 1.

The man was stuffing fax book pages into his pullover overcoat. "Not

only won't I know how it ends, I won't even know how it begins."

The platform beeped. Thirty seconds later Conger was in New Lisbon.

CHAPTER 2

The begging machine rolled along the dim dirty alley after Conger. Mud

and offal and bits of bone splashed up on both of them. "One donation

takes care of it all, senhor," the square chest-high mechanism said

through its rusty voice grid. "Give me only a mere fifty escudos and I'll

hand over a lapel pin which is guaranteed to keep all the real live wretched

beggars of Old Lisbon away from you."

"Okay." Conger had had some of his money changed into Portuguese

currency at the New Lisbon teleport station. "Here, now stop sloshing crap

on me." He shoved a bill into the mechanism's donation slot.

"Muito 'brigado," said the wheeled machine as it ingested the money.

"Which means, much obliged or thank you very much."

"I know," said Conger.

"Here's your lapel pin, senhor. Forgive the grease on it." The machine

bumped against one of the thousands of noryl plastic pillars which

supported New Lisbon up above. Caked mud and bird droppings shook

loose from the support struts, which were a hundred feet above them at

this point, and sprinkled down on Conger's two-piece travel suit. "Sinto

muito," muttered the machine, reaching out an extendable hand to brush

dove dung off Conger's shoulder. "Which means, I am very sorry."

"Why don't you apologize to me also?" complained a derelict sprawled

in the mucky passway. "You just ran over my prosthetic device."

"Your what?" asked the machine, slowing to a stop.

The derelict clutched his ragged one-piece lounging suit to his frail

body, then kicked the smudged machine in the side. "This, tonto, my false

leg."

Conger pulled away from the squabble, turned down a cobblestone

street. The roof of Old Lisbon had a light vent here, letting thin late

afternoon sunlight cut down through the murk. Conger stepped over a

dead dog, scattering the fat grey rats that had been at it. Near the corner,

next to the ruins of a 16th Century cathedral rose the new looking dome of

a building. Its light strip signs pulsed, advertising Pugilismo Mecanico!

Roboxing! in two foot high script.

One of the rats had followed him to the box office of the prize fighting

dome. Conger booted it toward a stuffed gutter with one of his

synthleather tourist shoes.

Inside the tinted plastic ticket booth a humanoid robot who'd recently

been repainted a bright flat pink was leaning far to the right. "How many,

senhor?"

"One," said Conger, "in the private box section." He'd arrived in New

Lisbon at 5 PM. The teleport trip from Manhattan took only a few

seconds, but because of the time difference he'd jumped ahead six hours.

When he checked in at the Novo America Hotel he'd found one of his

coded messages directed him to descend into Old Lisbon and contact the

sniper who had shot and killed Colonel Cavala. The sniper was to meet

him in his box at the robot fight arena.

The climb ramps weren't functioning, so Conger had to walk up and

around to the horseshoe row of hanging plastic boxes above the ring.

Inside Box #15 a plump man in parts of a military uniform was sitting

back in a partially inflated cushion chair as he watched the robot bout

below, munching on a thick link of black sausage wrapped in brown

bread.

Conger crossed the catwalk to #15 and gave the prearranged knock on

the door of the plastic box.

The plump man turned to blink at him, still chewing. "Que deseja?" he

asked. "Which means . . ."

"What do I want, I know." Conger'd taken a sleep course in

Conversational Portuguese only six months ago. Putting one hand near the

smeared see-through wall, he made the prearranged highsign.

"Que?" said the plump man. He took another bite of his rough hewn

sandwich, then slowly began to smile. "Oh, sim, yes, of course, the

American spy. Entre, which means . . ."

Conger came into the booth. "Let's have the countersign," he told the

plump man.

The man waved his sausage at him. "I am Captain Conti Delgado," he

laughed. "Anyone here will assure you of that. I'm a well-known pugilism

buff."

Up from below came the clang of two ancient boxing robots going at

each other.

"Even so," said Conger.

Sighing, the plump man placed his sandwich on the lid of a realistic

imitation wicker picnic basket which was sitting between his sneakered

feet. He gave the countersign. "Now, sente-se, por favor, which means . .

Conger sat down on the hanging booth's only other chair. The air-filled

chair gave a mild hiss and commenced to very slowly deflate. "What can

you tell me about Colonel Cavala?" he asked.

Delgado retrieved his snack, reached his other hand into the basket.

"Care for some blood sausage, senhor? Made from one of my own pigs."

He cocked his head upward. "I have a pig farm up on the outskirts of New

Lisbon."

"No, thanks." Conger took a vial of kelp pills from his pocket, shook four

into his palm.

"These are the most healthy pigs you'll come by, senhor. They eat only

organically grown slop and I myself give each one a shot of antibiotic once

a month. Did you ever inject several thousand pigs inthe . . ."

"About the colonel," said Conger.

Giving a shrug, Delgado withdrew his hand from the picnic hamper. An

immense clattering bang rose up from the ring. "Huh, the Masked Marvel

fell down. That wasn't supposed to happen." He took a bite out of the

sausage, turning to watch Conger. "Colonel Cavala is dead."

"You're certain?"

"I know who I shoot—after all, senhor."

"And it was Cavala you killed?"

Delgado laughed. "I make my living now as a freelance assassin, senhor,

and have since I left the service, after many happy years on the front lines

in Angola. To survive as a freelance, and perhaps the same is true in your

rather specialized line of work, you have to be good and dependable. Were

I to shoot more than one or two of the wrong people I'd be finished."

"You knew the colonel well?"

"At one time we were extremely close," said Captain Delgado. "That was

of course before he turned into a wild-eyed radical and soft-hearted

liberal. He served together in the unfortunately unsuccessful campaign to

regain Goa from those wretched Indians."

"Then you can be sure it was him you shot."

"Of course," replied the plump man. "I did my job, I guarantee you. I

don't know why NSO is so worried."

"I'm not with NSO." Conger ate two kelp pills. "I'm with RFA."

"Ah, you RFA people are not so . . . not so . . ." He made circles in the

musty air with his sausage. "Not so daring and flamboyant as NSO. I

rarely if ever get any work out of your organization." He returned to eating

for a moment. "Well, senhor, whoever you are working for you can rest

assured Cavala is dead and gone. I put a hole through him right here . . .

no, a little higher . . . right here. In through here and out the back with the

best laser rifle you can get, a Russian-made job your NSO people bought

me on my last saint's day. Even the most gifted surgeons in the world can

not patch up a man after that."

"Where do you think his body is now?"

"Poor Cavala is buried in the family plot at the New Relocated Sacred

Ground of Our Blessed Lady Cemetery," said Delgado, jabbing a thumb

toward the ceiling. "Up in New Lisbon."

There'd been a coded message about that waiting at Conger's hotel as

well. "One of our RFA men in New Lisbon checked this morning," Conger

told the assassin. "The coffin is empty."

"Merde!" Captain Delgado dropped his sausage and bread.

"You didn't know that?"

"Of course not, senhor. My work is more taken up with another phase of

things," said the plump man. "I don't keep track of all of them after I

finish with them. But in this case, due to my sentimental feelings over our

once pleasant association in the military, I attended poor misguided

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摘要：

ATalentForTheInvisibleRonGoulartCOPYRIGHT©1973,BYRONGOULARTALLRIGHTSRESERVED.CHAPTER1Robotswerechasinghim.Itwasacleanwarmmorning,about6:30AM,inthelatespringoftheyear2020andJakeCongerwasjoggingalongoneofthehigh,wide,plasticrampswhichconnectedthetowersofManhattan.Congerwasaleantanmanofthirtyone,wearin...

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Ron Goulart - A Talent For The Invisible

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