Alien From the Stars Page 11

  Those were the negative factors. The positive factor -- the golden opportunity that had presented itself -- lay in the propulsion system that had driven the strange spacecraft across the all but unimaginable gulfs that separate one star from another. The nation that possessed such a drive could extend its power into the universe. That glittering prospect, and the advancement it could bring him, honed his determination to a sharp edge.

  In the few brief hours it had taken Clayton to alert the other four members of the apparat, give them brief instructions, and drive them to the once-lonely valley east of San Diego, he'd crystallized several possible courses of action, each dependent upon the particular situation that he might encounter. The assumption of the spacecraft and its mysterious destruction had led to the assumption of survivors, a view shared by his superior as well as by the U.S. government, to judge from the action it was taking. Luce -- or more likely the chief of an apparat several steps above Luce -- had pipelines that reached into the most sensitive parts of the nation. Luce's orders had not only stemmed from his superiors but were based on knowledge of what the

  American government knew. That made the information given him doubly solid.

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  Following the premise of survivors, Luce had seen two alternatives, both acceptable to Clayton.

  The first, and most desirable, was to seize one or more of the survivors and spirit him or them across the nearby border into Mexico.

  There, close by the small Mexican town of Tecate, his superior would have another apparat waiting. From there it was but a short step to Tijuana. In almost no time at all the aliens would find themselves aboard a Russian fishing trawler for transfer to a waiting submarine. Shortly they would be in

  Moscow. That was the triumph he sought. But failing that, the second objective was to kill them.

  Under no circumstances could one of the strange beings be allowed to fall into the hands of the United States government. The end was all that counted, not the cost.

  Now, concealed with his men on a small wooded knoll that overlooked the valley's floor, William Clayton knew that he had his work cut out -- had known almost from the hour of his arrival. Stopping at the country store, he'd heard the gossip concerning the coming of the giant helicopters, the sudden war games, the Army encampment that had sprung up in the darkness --

  had seen the

  Army trucks that still streamed down the grade from the east. While dismaying, the events held a strong plus factor -- in his mind they made the story of the interstellar ship's existence a certainty.

  Although the ship had been destroyed, he clung to the hope that its critical secrets still lived in the minds of its survivors.

  Clayton hadn't been idle. He'd heard and discounted the wild rumors regarding "the spaceship with the Russian flag," the "monstrous ape with the ray gun," and other such absurdities; but some rumors he hadn't discounted.

  One concerned the vigilantes' near-capture of a strange creature ("a midget Russian spy," the vigilantes had claimed) that had escaped them by throwing up a wall of flame; another concerned a boy who allegedly was shielding one of the ship's survivors from capture.

  The rumors had been too insistent, too much in agreement for him to disregard.

  A few adroit questions had elicited the boy's name and where he lived.

  "The son of the Adam widow," a bystander had informed him and had obligingly pointed out the boy's house. In lieu of other leads, Clayton had decided to investigate the youth further.

  He lifted his powerful field glasses again. Sitting on the porch with an old man, the boy had scarcely moved in several hours, and then only to pop in and out of the house. Clayton restrained his impatience. If the boy left the house, he would be able to follow him almost anywhere in the valley from his carefully selected vantage point atop the knoll.

  Could the boy be hiding the alien in the house? The question, which had tantalized him earlier, returned. Anything was possible, he reflected, but how had the boy established contact with the alien? And was there only one?

  Perhaps one had been sent out from hiding to see how it would fare before the others risked revealing themselves; that seemed plausible. But if he could deliver even one to Moscow, he couldn't ask for more.

  Despite his determination, Clayton felt some misgivings. He scarcely knew the four men who shared the knoll with him, nor had they known one another until drawn together by the present assignment; but that was the

  nature of the GRU. Neither were they prepared for what Clayton sensed lay ahead. They had been trained for espionage, not for kidnap and murder; the GRU

  maintained special apparats for that. Conrad and Easterbrook had tough faces, perhaps weren't strangers to violence. Maxwell and Harper appeared on the softer side, yet he knew that appearances told almost nothing about a man's capabilities. They'd been tried by the GRU and passed; that was sufficient to assure him that they'd carry out his orders to the letter. In the end it all fell back on him, which was the way he wanted it.

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  He moved his field glasses to study the Army encampment again. More tents were springing up, and dust rose in the wake of trucks that bounced along the rutted road from the highway. Here and there he spotted movement in the hills which indicated the presence of patrols. Farther still, where the ridges rose starkly against the skyline, he heard the low thunder of chopper blades. He had no doubt that the entire restricted area, including the knoll where he stood and the scattered houses and farms in the valley, would be searched. He'd have to watch the patrols, move to evade them, circle to let them pass -- hide among the tree branches if necessary. And while eluding the patrols, he would have to find his quarry -- the one the boy was shielding --

  spirit him across the border or, if necessary, kill him. In that he couldn't fail. But it would be touch and go.

  Careful to keep the sunlight from touching his glasses and possibly betraying his position, he made a minute inspection of the valley. The crowd in front of the store had more than tripled its earlier size. Although many of the men were armed and several held leashed dogs, none were venturing into the nearby fields. He attributed that to the warnings posted by the Army.

  The tang of tobacco brought his head around sharply. Dave Harper was smoking. "Douse it,"

  Clayton ordered curtly. Harper obediently ground the cigarette into the soil and looked away.

  Clayton was moving his glasses again when suddenly he paused. A woman -- no, a girl -- had emerged from an old two-story house set among a fringe of eucalyptus and was starting along the dusty road that led to the store.

  He watched her casually, then more sharply as she turned off into a path that led directly to the house where the boy and old man sat. She appeared slender, brunette, on the tall side. The boy rose and hurried to meet her.

  They paused to talk for a few moments before proceeding to the porch where the old man sat.

  How did the girl fit into the picture? Clayton frowned thoughtfully, if she were privy to the boy's secret, she might be aiding him. That would complicate matters. And what of the old man?

  Possibly all three were in on the secret. The thought was disquieting.

  Several hours later the young couple returned across the field. He watched until they entered the two-story frame structure from which the girl had come. lie studied the house and old shed behind it. Despite the trees, his location gave him a fairly good view of both the front and the back. If the boy came out either exit, Clayton was all but certain to see him.

  He scanned the surrounding area. Beyond the sparse eucalyptus around the girl's house, an unplowed field perhaps several hundred yards wide terminated at a much larger grove. So thick were the trees that it appeared all but impenetrable.

  His gaze traveled past a ramshackle structure and leaped back. All but hidden under the drooping branches, it would have escaped his detection were it not for the streaks of whitewash that still marked the weathered siding. He scrutinized the building caref
ully. Clearly it had been abandoned for many years. If entered at night, it might serve as an excellent shelter.

  He was sweeping the edge of the valley when movement caught his eye. He held the glasses steady. Several indistinct figures were visible in the shade of another grove. His first surmise that it might be an Army patrol was

  rejected when he realized the figures were clothed in solid black. Boots, trousers, shirts, flat-crowned hats -- all were of the same dark hue.

  Recalling the rumors he'd heard at the store, he reflected that these must be the vigilantes who had all but caught one of the survivors from the ship, only to lose him behind a wall of flame.

  They were also -- he smiled grimly --

  rabid anti-Communists.

  Clayton pondered the meaning of this new complication. Unless he was greatly mistaken, the vigilantes were as much in violation of the Army's orders as he was. Were they watching the boy?

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  If so, they must still believe that he could lead them to the alien or be made to reveal where the alien was hiding. Glancing at the sun, he sat in the shade to watch the valley.

  It looked, he thought, like a long, long day.

  Several hours later the boy returned home. Vanishing inside for a short while, he returned to the porch to sit with the old man. Clayton watched them uneasily. If the boy wasn't involved, he was wasting precious time. Moreover, he couldn't hope to remain in the valley overly long without attracting attention. Coupled with that, the fear that Army patrols might flush the creatures from hiding and whisk them beyond his reach made him tense and edgy.

  Yet he had little alternative but to wait.

  He spent the time dissecting the problem, reviewing what he knew. How many of the creatures were there? The gossip at the store had centered on one, yet it was probable that there would be several, at least. If the Army captured one of the creatures, that creature had to be killed. But what if the

  Army captured three or four? He hadn't really thought of that possibility.

  His uneasiness grew as the long afternoon waned. Was the boy waiting for darkness? Clayton had the uncomfortable premonition that he was. If so, they'd have to abandon the knoll at nightfall, take up positions where they could watch both the front and the back of the boy's house. He contemplated the danger. He had small doubt that Army patrols would keep the valley floor under close surveillance. Moreover, they'd certainly be equipped with nightscopes.

  But he had no choice; he'd committed himself to a course of action, now had to follow through.

  He hoped, if he were successful, the mounting odds would be reflected in an increased reward. If he were successful? He couldn't fail; the stakes were too great.

  With the onset of dusk the boy emerged from the house and started toward the rambling structure where the girl lived. Clayton studied him in the gathering gloom. Although he could see but little, the boy's walk and manner suggested nothing more than a casual stroll. Clayton didn't believe that to be the fact.

  He felt a quiet desperation. He had to move his men out of cover, go down to the sparse grove where the girl's house stood. Wherever the boy went, they had to follow. Sooner or later, he was convinced, the boy would lead him to the alien.

  He took a last look at the valley in the gathering gloom. No sound or movement touched his senses save for an occasional car on the highway. There should be Army patrols moving out, but there weren't. And what of the black-garbed men he'd seen earlier? Too quiet, he thought. The lull was unnatural.

  He dispatched Easterbrook to get Conrad, who was standing watch on the opposite rim. When they returned, he briefly described their mission, cautioned them to silence, and started down the slope.

  The night moved to gather them in.

  David Harper tasted the sour fear in his throat.

  Following Clayton through the gathering dusk, he was well aware of their danger; he'd glimpsed the patrols moving up the ravines and along the ridges of the neighboring hills. He realized that the floor of the valley at night --

  especially at night! -- would be under close surveillance. If they were caught, it would be the end for him. He'd had no time to warn the FBI; now, if they were apprehended, the FBI probably would operate on the assumption that he'd returned his loyalties to Russia. Should he manage to escape, the GRU

  would learn soon enough that he'd served as a double agent. If necessary, they'd track him to the ends of the Earth.

  If he could somehow manage to contact the FBI before it was too late...He savored the desperate hope. Perhaps he could sneak away in the darkness, return to San Diego, tell his story.

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  But no, he couldn't as long as

  Clayton and the others lived to reveal his defection.

  But if they were caught? He tried to discern how he might salvage himself. If he talked -- if the FBI believed him -- they might give him a new identity, new papers, allow him to start over in an entirely different part of the country. Was that possible? He'd heard of such cases. But there was still the GRU!

  Clayton signaled for a halt while he peered into the gathering darkness.

  Harper saw the lights of houses, the beams of vehicles coming down the grade from the east. In the deep gloom that was not yet night they looked like pale yellow blobs. He wished he were back in Los Angeles gathering his information on the big aircraft plants, living quietly. The city had given him an anonymity; here he was naked. There was something terrifying about the rolling land, the big empty sky.

  Apparently satisfied, Clayton moved ahead again, using the fringe of eucalyptus to keep them hidden from any chance observers in the big house. It was crazy, thought Harper. How could anyone hide in an open field? But then, the whole thing was crazy. The idea of a ship from another star was something he might expect on TV, not in real life. Yet Clayton apparently believed that such a ship had landed, which meant that Clayton's superiors believed it. That gave him pause for thought.

  Clayton reached the fringe of eucalyptus, halting well to the rear of the house. Gesturing to the others to sit, he worked his way to one side, where he could see the light spill out should anyone open the front door.

  Silent and immobile, Harper watched the night deepen around them. The hum of insects, the twitter of birds, rustling noises in the grass -- sounds reached him that he'd seldom if ever heard.

  With each new sound his fear soared.

  After a while Clayton returned, gave terse instructions, then slipped off through the darkness with Maxwell and Easterbrook to cover the front of the house. Harper was left with the agent named Conrad.

  When the others were gone, Conrad dug into his pocket. "Cigarette?" he offered.

  "Don't mind if I do." Harper tried to still the sudden trembling in his fingers as he took one.

  Conrad ignited his lighter, cupping the flame in his hands. As they smoked, Harper kept his senses tuned to the night. He got the odd impression that the darkness held motion. The deep shadows of the trees, the silhouette of the house against the star-speckled sky, the distant ridges

  -- everything around him appeared to sway in a slow back and forth movement.

  Strange scents touched his nostrils. He wondered that Conrad appeared so unperturbed. The harsh scream of a night bird caused him to start involuntarily.

  "Jittery?" asked Conrad.

  "I don't like the country," he admitted.

  "All in a day's work." Conrad took a deep drag on his cigarette and exhaled slowly. "But I'll have to admit that this is a crazy assignment."

  "Do you believe that, about the spaceship?"

  "Why not?" Conrad glanced at the sky. "Lots of room for lots of people up there." Harper didn't answer. After a while he became aware of a dull thudding sound and jerked erect.

  "What's that?" he asked worriedly.

  "Horses. Might be a corral around somewhere."

  "I didn't see any."

  "Shhhh." Conrad gestured him to silence and peered into the darkness.

  Fo
llowing his gaze, Harper was alarmed to see several gigantic blobs that he realized were riders moving across the field.

  "Army patrol?" he asked tremulously.

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  Conrad shook his head. "Those boys use jeeps."

  "Who could they be?"

  "Local yokels. Lots of farms around."

  "They don't seem worried about the Army."

  "Probably know their way around." As the figures vanished in the night, Conrad took another drag on his cigarette before extinguishing it in the ground. "Hell of a way to make a living," he observed.

  "Yeah." For the thousandth time Harper wished he'd never heard of the GRU.

  He was thinking about it when the boy came out through the back door.

  NINE

  TOBY MOVED STEALTHILY across the field toward the old Jackson barn, his senses attuned to the night. Under the faint glimmer of starlight the scene ahead was a mosaic of dark blobs that held a curious fluidity -- an illusion, he knew, caused by the inability of his eye to focus on any specific object.

  Only the hills, silhouetted against the sky, returned a sense of perspective and solidity.

  He paused to peer behind. Rectangles of light spilling from the side windows of the Jansen house emphasized the valley's loneliness. Earlier, from one of those same windows, he'd glimpsed the vigilantes standing at the edge of a grove at the western side of the valley, recognizable only by their black garb. The sight had been disquieting. He felt certain they wouldn't maintain a vigil without a definite plan of action. Would they be watching through the night? Reason told him they would, for whatever their plans, they'd have to be carried out under cover of darkness now that the Army had come.

  That was one danger. Another was the Army. Up till now the troops had concentrated on throwing a vast net over the valley and surrounding hills and probably for many miles around.