Philip E. High - Invader on My Back

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2024-12-20 0 0 336.91KB 143 页 5.9玖币
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Invader on My Back by
Philip E. High
Chapter One
THE NORMS had long since moved from the cities; so had the police.
Those who remained were jubilant to a degree—it was a pity to lose the
police. Cop-killing had been, if not materially rewarding, a considerable
boost to prestige. Now they must find other ways of impressing their
fellows.
The police themselves, once clear of the cities, formed according to city
opinion, an unholy alliance with the Armed Services. Between them, they
built enormous forts, reminiscent of the ancient prison camps, which they
surrounded with lights, weapons and lethal invisible barriers. Wiseacres
asked if the forts had been built to keep the bad elements out or the police
in.
Periodically, however, the police made savage punitive raids on the
cities—this was when the cities began to get ideas about the Norms.
The Norms, generally speaking, built their rural communities, but a
great many people had died in the early days of the Troubles and left room
for expansion. Again, only the hubs of the great cities remained. The once
sprawling suburbs had long ago been pounded to dust in countless clashes
of arms.
Besides rearranging the social structure of the race, the Troubles had
also brought about sharp caste divisions which had nothing to do with
wealth, heritage, color, creed, or any previously known cultural factor.
These new castes were know by commonplace and often slightly vulgar
terms of reference.
There were, of course, the police, the Norms, the Scuttlers—every
community has its Scuttlers—the Delinks, who could be subdivided into
various categories, and the Stinkers.
The Stinkers were few and unique because a Stinker didn't develop into
a Stinker until late adolescence. Once developed, he was exceedingly lucky
if he survived a year; usually Stinkers ended up in some quiet place with a
lot of holes in their backs.
If, however, by good fortune or singular ability, he lived a year, his
chances of survival were good. If he lived two years, he would probably die
of old age: no one but a madman would try to take an experienced Stinker.
A Stinker learned survival the hard way; it became his stock-in-trade,
creed, religion and way of life.
An experienced Stinker developed a sixth sense for ambush, could smell
booby traps a mile away and knew more about poison substances than a
research laboratory. Usually he surrounded himself with a large variety of
subtle and ingenious weapons and could draw faster and shoot quicker
than any other living man. Not even a Father-Assassin in one of the cities
would consider one:
"A Stinker, Patron! Are you mad? Look, my good friend, to take a
Stinker I must use sixty men. Of these sixty men I shall, at a conservative
estimate, lose half. If I lose thirty men, I am below survival level, I am
vulnerable, I am gunned down by a bigger guild before I can draw breath.
However, Patron, rather than appear ungenerous, I will compromise. I will
tell you, without charge and in exquisite detail, just what to do with your
five million offer…"
The police, too, stood clear. The Stinkers never did anything indictable
and they killed only in self-defense. Lose a couple of squads picking one
up—for what?
The Stinkers, therefore, if they could keep their sanity, which was a
hard enough job in itself, lived comparatively untroubled lives. That is, if
they could stand being virtual lepers, living like hermits and being actively
and violently hated. Stinkers were not called Stinkers for nothing!
Craig was a Stinker, an experienced Stinker and survival-wise to the
point of near-clairvoyance. He was also a philosophical thinker and highly
intelligent into the bargain.
In his early days he had been almost an infant prodigy and, at fourteen,
had majored in cybernetics. At seventeen he had acquired degrees in six
sciences and his future had seemed assured.
Regrettably, at the age of eighteen, he began to Stink and his associates,
colleagues and odd members of the general public went to considerable
lengths to dispose of him.
Perhaps it was his innate genius which saved him; that, coupled with
his courage and physical strength.
As soon as he began to notice the growing hostility of those around him,
he realized his caste and took precautionary measures. These
measures—he had a high degree of technical ability—he improved upon
with the passing of time. In truth, they were now the true companions of
his isolation, but in those early days they had saved his life many times
over.
Now, at the age of thirty-three, Craig was a big man with hairy arms
and a brown, sort of unfinished, but not unhandsome, face. He kept his
dark hair short and he had the sort of chin which non-Stinkers described
as aggressive but in another age would have been called determined. The
dark eyes were almost gentle and the mouth sensitive.
Craig did not look like an untouchable and his well-balanced mind had
saved him from a sense of persecution. If you were a Stinker, you were a
Stinker. You had to accept the fact or go under, because there was not a
damn thing you could do about it.
Craig was fortunate in starting with money. He bought equipment,
work robots and a deceptively battered-looking flyer which now, thanks to
his technical skill, could make a police pursuit ship look as if it were in
reverse.
The robots constructed him a comfortable home on an inaccessible
mountaintop and with his technical ability and the ship, he traded.
It was a tribute to his ingenuity that he had not only succeeded in
creating trade but turned it into a highly lucrative business. All
negotiations, prices, requirements and orders had to be conducted in
writing. There was no other way; any other form of contact would, but for
his reputation, have exploded into violence.
Craig described himself mentally as a "flyer tinker." He was much more
than that but there was a basis of truth in the idea. The police always
grabbed the best men, and skilled technicians were, therefore, in short
supply. Craig went around fixing things, highly technical things, like
converter-tubes, Malpras thermonuclear reactors and the highly unstable
Bibnal-Siefert energy accumulators.
It was around noon when Craig came in over Tucker's place. Tucker ran
a rural general store, replacement office and a small, three-tier
autofactory turning out a variety of goods such as furniture, clothing and
unflavored food basics. He did quite well out of it, so well that he not only
employed men but could afford guns and guards. In consequence, the
nearest police fort was, discreetly, just below the horizon. Tucker could
afford a limited independence.
Craig gave his usual call sign but did not descend… experienced
Stinkers took nothing for granted. With instruments, he checked for
concentrations of chemical explosives, for the telltale blue spots of
programmed booby traps or flick-guns, and the surrounding terrain for
concealed sharpshooters.
Tucker sent a recognition signal (recorded) and a list of the things he
wanted fixed (also recorded). On the receipt of, Craig's call sign, he and
his staff immediately took short-time Comalyzers. Thus, while Craig went
about his business, everyone was blissfully out to the world. It had to be
that way, since no once could conduct his normal affairs within a hundred
yards of a Stinker without becoming hysterical, violent or both.
Craig brought his ship down slowly, still checking and, one hundred and
fifty feet from the ground, said, "Reeky, have a look around."
"Yes, sir." There was a plop as Reeky dropped through his special exit
lock.
A few seconds later he reported an all clear. "Green, sir, lovely and
green."
Craig put the ship down.
"Gun, cover my back. Screen, procedure three… ."
When Craig reached his last job, there was a letter perched on a low
shelf directly in front of him. Clearly the letter was not from Tucker but it
was addressed to Michael Craig.
Craig did not touch it. The letter had obviously been sent to Tucker for
delivery and the man had left it in this obvious place for his attention. It
had, therefore, come from someone who knew his movements. It might be
another customer and it might not.
When he got back to the ship, he sent a remote-controlled device back
for the letter. The device slit the envelope, unfolded the letter and beamed
back the contents to one of the vessel's receiving screens.
In his early days as a Stinker, Craig had received some ingeniously
unpleasant letters and had, long ago, ceased to open them personally. He
had received letters covered in impregnating poisons, letters which
exploded or fired microscopic missiles, letters which, if laid casually on
certain common substances, abruptly and violently ignited. No, he was
taking no chances on a letter from an unknown source.
Words appeared on the screen and the source of the letter was a
distinct shock. It was from the Police Research Institute,
Parapsychological Section and it read:
Dear Craig,
This letter will, no doubt, come as a surprise as will the existence of
the above research establishment.
In the Troubles of the last three centuries, research into the obscurer
sciences had to go by the board but with the slowing—not halting—of the
race's cultural decay, it was felt that investigation had to begin
somewhere. No sane man can honestly believe that the present situation
is due to natural causes alone.
The present unbreakable caste system, for example, is clearly inspired
by circumstances outside normal psychological behavior patterns.
Why are you a Stinker? You do not know and, to be frank, neither do
we. We can, however, provide you with additional data.
1) In the last fifty years, seven hundred and forty-three Stinkers have
developed. Of these, including yourself, only twenty-five have survived.
2) As far as we are aware, none of these Stinkers have ever met. Do
Stinkers stink to each other, Craig? Would you care to find out for us?
There is, we agree, in view of your untouchable caste, no reason
whatever for you to help us; nonetheless we should appreciate your
cooperation.
We have addressed a precisely similar letter to another Stinker in
central Africa. Would you consider a meeting?
As we have stressed, there is no reason why you should. You are an
outcast and, on direct contact, as detested by us as any other member of
the community. We deplore it but, without data and your cooperation,
we can do nothing about it.
Returning to the proposed meeting, although you are no doubt aware
of the dangers, we must, in fairness, point them out.
We do not know if such a meeting will prove explosive. It could well be
a reaction resulting in the deaths of one or both of you.
There is also another danger of which you may not be aware. Since
the inception of this department, attempts have been made against the
lives of its personnel and considerable ingenuity employed in the
attempted destruction of our research and record buildings.
It could well be, Mr. Craig, that with your involvement similar
attempts may be directed against your life and property. Further, we
are not dealing with crackpots but a highly efficient organization with
considerable scientific backing.
Should you decide to interest yourself in this proposal, you will be
placed immediately on this department's payroll at the proposed rate of
15800 credits per annum plus all relevant expenses.
Kindly notify us within three days of your decision.
Please note that all communications must be made on the 6/4 band.
This is an official police link and automatically scrambles all messages in
transit.
Sincerely,
Relton T. Gammon Director of Research.
Craig recorded the contents of the letter and lifted the ship. He was
frowning thoughtfully as he did so, not so much at the contents of the
letter but the subtlety of its implications. They have had a go at us, now
with your possible involvement, they may take a crack at you too. A very
neat piece of pressure-persuasion that. On the other hand, he was curious.
Just what did happen when two Stinkers met?
He had the uncomfortable feeling that despite the obvious dangers he
was going to accept. There were too many question marks, too much left
up in the air.
He realized abruptly that the letter had been deliberately slanted to
rouse his curiosity and he felt a grudging respect for the writer. Money
might not buy him but curiosity might.
Probably due to his precarious early years, Craig was a man of quick
decisions.
His reply was characteristically abrupt: Accept. Kindly give African
address, call sign, etc.
The answer was back within five minutes. He studied it and frowned.
Jungle country, not a happy choice; he was entering no jungle to meet a
man with a survival instinct as acute and overdeveloped as his own. Better
make arrangements.
He drafted out a long letter, three-quarters of which was devoted to
safety precautions designed to protect both parties. Let's see now, what
was the man's name—ah, yes, Hastings, Geo Hastings. Geo? Funny name
that, short for George presumably.
When he set out two days later, he took the sea route. There were too
many cities and wild communities jealous of their air space on the land
route.
The sea route, however, was not without incident. A floating city, busily
sea-farming, beamed a stern warning to keep clear, and two small islands
took potshots at him. Fortunately they were well out of range.
He was an hour's flying time from the African coast when Reeky made
an irritable tutting noise.
"We have company," he announced with a certain glum satisfaction.
Craig, letting the ship fly itself, looked at the detector screen. "Where?"
"Beyond the range of that thing. One ship, seventy-eight miles behind
and twenty-two thousand above. Second ship, twenty miles behind the
first and four thousand feet above."
Craig thought about the letter: Similar attempts may be directed
against your life and property. Hadn't wasted much time, had they?
He changed course and waited.
"Still following?"
"As if they were glued to the same rail."
Craig grinned twistedly. "Gun!"
"Sir. Yes, and goodbye." Gun dropped through his special lock with a
plopping sound.
"Recky!"
"On my way."
"Screen, procedure one."
"Can do." The words echoed from the spot he had vacated.
The men in the ships were not only killers, they were full of Lessedrene
and consequently without emotion. They spoke detachedly, coolly and
without emphasis or inflection.
The drug, although eradicating fear, also had the effect of removing
enthusiasm and natural caution. Bluntly, the men were emotionally dead
but it had to be that way. Normal men with their emotional faculties
unimpaired would have done the job with greater precision and
considerable skill, but normal men would now be traveling at full boost in
the opposite direction. No one but a lunatic would attempt to take a
Stinker in his own flyer—not with two ships.
They were, however, completely without fear and following orders:
"Close in and strike before the Stinker reaches the coast."
The detector operator looked up. "I've got something, Pollit."
Pollit, chewing the ends of his limp moustache, said, "What do you
mean something? Give it magnification, you fool."
The operator gave it magnification. "Okay, it's a bird; yeah a bird, small
eagle or something."
"Good, better to be on the safe side, orders." His face blanked slowly. "A
bird?"
"Something wrong with that? Look for yourself."
"I am looking. What kind of bird flies at ninety-seven thousand feet, for
God's sake?"
The operator frowned at him in a puzzled way. "Well, It's-"
The man never finished the sentence. High above, Gun folded his wings
and dropped like a stone. As he dropped, his body vibrated oddly and
things happened to the ship below him. Sparks danced on its back and
where the sparks danced, the surface opened jaggedly, spraying smoke
and fragments.
The vessel lurched, yawed dangerously and finally stood on its tail.
Fractionally it seemed to stand there, then it rolled slowly from the
perpendicular and plunged downward trailing smoke.
Reeky hit the second ship before they knew he was there, and it
disintegrated spectacularly in a billowing cloud of black smoke.
"You didn't need me." Screen sounded almost accusing.
"I might have." Craig looked at a column of smoke rising from the
ocean. "If they had got closer, a force screen miles from the ship might
have proved really disconcerting."
Gun returned. "Pranged," he announced contentedly. "What does that
mean, by the way? I read it in a book last week."
Craig told him.
"Interesting. I must read up on the period." He ruffled his plastic
feathers. "I have calculated, however, that the retentive capacity of my
memory is now restricted to a mere seventy thousand additional words.
How about fixing me up with two more retentive banks?"
"You'd never get off the ground."
"I've thought of that too. You could reduce the size of my gravity motor
by micro-engineering and use three impressed circuits for the job instead
of the four space-wasting printed ones."
"If I did that, you could take four retentive banks."
"You anticipate me but I had no wish to appear greedy."
Craig smiled faintly. "As soon as possible, and that is a promise."
Gun extended one wing, examined his feathers and said, "Many
thanks."
Craig said nothing but the real debt lay on him. These three had saved
his life more times than he could remember. Three robots, no, three killer
robots, disconcertingly disguised as birds. Birds with anti-gravity motors
and veritable arsenals of built-in micro-weapons.
When he had first built them, they had been crude indeed, flying
mechanisms with little more than a reflex-response unit. Over the years,
however, he had given them life and intelligence. Somehow they seemed to
deserve it; perhaps it was a sentimental idea but he had become attached
to them. It had been a wise decision for the three had saved his sanity.
They had developed into personalities and proved stimulating companions
in his isolation. He had given them free-decision, apart from their
business as bodyguards, and all three had total-recall. Gun, the golden
eagle, was a compulsive reader and was continually absorbing words.
Periodically and rather nasally he quoted verse but with singular respect
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ScannedbyHighroller.ProofedmoreorlessbyHighroller.MadeprettierbyuseofEBookDesignGroupStylesheet.InvaderonMyBackbyPhilipE.HighChapterOneTHENORMShadlongsincemovedfromthecities;sohadthepolice.Thosewhoremainedwerejubilanttoadegree—itwasapitytolosethepolice.Cop-killinghadbeen,ifnotmateriallyrewarding,aco...

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