The First Team

13

Like the slow fingers of winter feeling their way across the country in late October, the deepening effect of the defeat began to grip every part of the nation. The heavy transatlantic air traffic had changed pattern until some ten thousand of the enemy were being ferried westward each day. Not many other travelers booked the available flights; the United States had been stripped of its tourist appeal, and few Americans were in the mood for pleasure travel in Europe. Grim foreboding overshadowed the whole country as the realization sank home that the worst was not over and that still more difficult and dangerous times lay ahead.

During the original days of the occupation the orders had been to continue all of the normal functions of the government until further notice. As a result policemen and firemen still manned their posts, the courts sat and handed down decisions, and the postal service continued very much as before. They functioned, however, in a shadow world in which the will of the enemy was in absolute control and tightening its grip with each passing day.

As the fall approached the New York Philharmonic Symphony Orchestra announced the cancellation of its season. No reason was given; the bare statement was allowed to stand without amplification. There were reports that no conductor of stature could be found to assume responsibility for the orchestra, so many of the leading maestros being Jewish, and more accurate ones that the orchestra was having difficulties filling all of its chairs. Estimates of the Jewish makeup of the orchestra varied between fifty and ninety per cent, but whatever the true figure might be, there was little doubt in the world’s greatest Jewish city that the enemy was directly responsible.

For the first time since the President had announced the nation’s surrender, “in order that human life may be saved and we may be spared the horror of nuclear conflict,” there was real and genuine concern about the future. No longer was there a general trust that something would be worked out through diplomatic channels; now there was no hope ahead and the total, conscienceless takeover by the enemy emerged from a projected picture on a movie screen to a living, brutal, three-dimensional reality.

Although the normal means of national communication were under tight censorship and control, a changing attitude became visible throughout the whole country. Without fanfare or announcement, Marc Orberg recordings quietly disappeared from the market. Where it had once been impossible to walk through Times Square without hearing his voice projected at the passersby from at least a half dozen record stores, now there was no indication that he had ever appeared on the scene. The blow-up posters of him, life size and larger, were no longer to be found. A single Village shop, owned by a heteroclite young man tightly shrouded in his own ideas, displayed a window streamer that read: want orberg records? we got ’em. The banner had been up only two days when the store was broken into at night by persons unknown and the stock was badly vandalized. Less than two weeks after that unpublicized event no Orberg songs could be found on the market, performed by himself or anyone else. None were played on the air.

In the Negro areas of many of the major cities the common sign free wattles became much less conspicuous. Negro Americans ranging from the affluent to those on welfare gradually shifted the focus of their interest from their own problems to those of the nation as a whole. Militants who had prophesied that the coming of the enemy would mean a new stature and dignity for the black man were faced with a reality that did not conform to their predictions. In sharp contrast the rural areas, particularly in the Midwest, were hard hit by the abrupt ending of the farm programs which had been in operation for many years. Price supports and many other government aids to agriculture were terminated without notice, and with the termination went a hard warning that no excuses would be accepted in lieu of full production.

Not much more than three months after the President’s capitulation there werq, more than a million of the enemy within the continental United States; one for every two hundred Americans. The long-held private lands in Hawaii, which had been controlled with great determination by the five pioneer families, were taken over, but none of the acreage was made available to the land-hungry residents who had long hoped to have the monopoly broken.

Many announcements were made; rules were laid down and enforcement became arbitrary. There was no avenue of appeal, no recourse except obedience — immediate and complete. Of all of the pronouncements made, the one which caused the greatest stir concerned the change of language. As soon as enough teachers could be brought over, the American public was told, instruction would begin immediately in the enemy’s language. Five years would be allowed for the transition; after that all use of the English language would cease except for authorized scholastic programs and necessary research projects. All newspapers, magazines, books, and other means of printed communication would have to be changed over. No one, regardless of age, would be excused from studying the new required language. “It must be now remembered,” the official announcement had said, “that currently and henceforth we own the United States by right of conquest. It will soon cease to exist as a separate nation.”

An additional problem appeared, this one without any announcement whatever, when it was discovered that the supply of major household appliances was rapidly diminishing. Increasingly urgent calls from wholesalers to their sources of supply revealed that almost all of the available production was being shipped overseas. The cost was paid and no more, but production was ordered kept at a maximum level. One of the largest national manufacturers finally got a statement from the controlling enemy office: it said tersely that there was a greater need for comforts in the victorious nation which had sacrificed so much in order to make military triumph possible. America had too much already, and the situation could be expected to last for some years.

The weeks of the occupation progressed without any sign that complete surrender had left any resource out of the enemy’s hands. There was not a family which did not feel the pressure, or inwardly cringe under the steady progression of pieces of bad news, one after the other, without any mitigation or evidence of even a ray of hope. The massacre of the college students was known everywhere, and in many areas hopeful little groups who had planned to establish an opposition framework realized the hopelessness of their position. There were millions who cursed the men in Washington who had allowed this to come about; a prime target of this invective was Senator Solomon Fitzhugh, the renowned dove who more than any other single individual had cut the ground out from under the armed forces and sapped the morale of the entire country. A famous sentence was quoted uncounted times in bitter hindsight; it became the password of those who hoped that someday they could do something. It appeared on handbills printed and distributed under the noses of the occupying forces by men who knew that capture meant immediate certain death. Long forgotten in the wave of isolationism brought on by the unpopular Vietnam war, it came back too late to help in the existing crisis. It became instead a bitter reminder to be recalled again if freedom ever returned, that eternal vigilance is the price of liberty.

The sun had been in the sky for only an hour or so when a nondescript car turned off the highway in western Colorado and headed up a dirt road toward the open country. The two hunters it carried had little to say to each other as the car went up one grade and down another; instead they kept a careful watch looking for evidences of wildlife and for any signs of movement in their range of vision. After they had driven a quarter hour over the steadily narrowing road, they saw on their left the boarded-up entrance to an old mine shaft. Someone had taken the trouble to string a few strands of used barbed wire around the barricade to prevent stray cattle from falling to their deaths down the abandoned opening. A badly weather-beaten sign warned any human passersby that the site was dangerous. The hunter who was driving took careful note of the old mine, but said nothing; he continued on up the road until it terminated, for all practical purposes, a half mile farther on. There he pulled the car off into the brush and set the parking brake.

The security personnel who guarded the underground headquarters of Thomas Jefferson had had the car under observation almost from the time that it had left the highway. As the vehicle had passed the concealed entrance the occupants had been photographed by precision automatic equipment utilizing a classified film which yielded ultra-sharp images almost totally devoid of grain. As the two hunters, rifles in hand, began to walk back down the road toward the old mine shaft, their progress was followed. At the same time other sensitive equipment in nearby concealed locations swept the area to determine if any other persons were within visual or audible range. The findings were negative.

When the first of the hunters reached the barbed wire at the head of the shaft, he laid his left hand on one strand and took hold of another, three feet from it, with his right. Almost at once he felt a slight tingle of electricity, the invisible acknowledgment that he had passed surveillance and that the surrounding area was clear. A half minute later there was no sign of the hunters; the old car that they had been driving was all but invisible in the brush where it had been left.

Lieutenant Colonel Henry Prichard, the search and rescue pilot, received them in his office and immediately offered coffee. His manner was cordial but preoccupied; all of the members of the First Team were under heavy strain as the action date for Low Blow drew closer. It was necessary to provide for every possible contingency well in advance, because everything had to go on the first try. If it did not, for any reason whatsoever, the whole Thomas Jefferson operation would be dealt a body blow. The possibility of an oversight, no matter how slight, haunted everyone concerned and kept them rechecking and re-rechecking until the tension became almost intolerable.

“How do things look?” the colonel asked. “I haven’t been out of this hole in months.”

The hunter who had been the passenger in the car answered him. He was dark and not as tall as his companion, but he knew that the question had been directed more or less at him. “It isn’t good. You have all of the factual news, but the invisible part, the sagging of the national will to resist, is bad. The people are frightened.”

The colonel nodded. “The slaughter of the college students was a bad one. It upset some of our fringe people pretty much and we had to drop quite a few.”

“How did you manage that?” the first hunter asked. He was blond and heavy, the weather-beaten man of the western outdoors in appearance — a helicopter pilot by profession.

“We put out the word that despite our best efforts, we had to face the fact that the situation was hopeless. We added that we believed that some of the other free countries of the world would eventually come to our rescue and that there was some hope that the government that had overrun us was due to collapse. Our higher-up people were all solid, of course.”

“Did they buy it?”

“I think so: I just gave you the bare bones of it; Ed Higbee prepared the story and when he got through I was ready to believe it myself.”

“I miss his column,” the smaller man said. “I used to read him whenever I had the chance. I hope that he’ll go back to it someday.” “He may,” the colonel answered, “but he has another idea. When this is all over, he wants to run for the Senate. If it all works out, that might put him up against Fitzhugh; he’s from the same state.” “Then he’s in,” the blond man cut in. “Fitzhugh couldn’t get elected constable today — if we had elections.”

A small light went on on the panel of the colonel’s intercom. He noted it immediately and got to his feet. “Dave,” he said to the helicopter pilot, “you can wait here if you’d like; no offense, but you know the rules. Commander, if you’ll follow me, the admiral is ready to see you.”

Admiral Haymarket, too, showed the strain that he was under. He motioned his visitors to chairs and personally drew three cups of coffee without asking first if they were wanted. When he had seated himself behind his desk once more, he could have been on the bridge of his flagship steaming at flank speed into the battle of Midway.

“Commander,” he began, “at the price of the added risk I wanted to bring you here so that we could talk face to face before this thing kicks off. When it does, you will probably be, without exaggeration, in one of the most vital command situations in the history of the United States Navy.”

“I’m well awara of that, sir,” the commander answered. “Completely aware.”

The admiral tried his coffee and then continued. “I’m not going to go into details as to how we decided on you for this mission and we assumed only one thing — that you would volunteer.”

The commander chose his words with great care. “Right now, sir, there are quite a few people, especially in light of recent events, who would question my right to call myself a hundred per cent American. I wonder, sir, if you can conceive what it means to me to have this chance to prove them wrong.”

The admiral tilted back in his chair for a moment, then sat upright again. “Commander, I think that I can. I know that I’m a WASP, a White Anglo-Saxon Protestant, but I’ve served with too many good men of other persuasions not to be aware.”

“Another thing, sir,” the commander continued, “I don’t know what guardian angel worked overtime to help get me picked for this assignment, but speaking purely as a man, it’s worth my entire life to me to have it. I’ll give you the very best that I’ve got to offer.”

The admiral tapped a folder on his desk. “Judging by your service record, commander, that’s all we’ll need. I chose you for this because you’re one of the very best that the Navy has, and you were available. All I can say is that I’m damn glad you weren’t at sea and tied up the way that so many of our people are now. God willing you will be at sea shortly; I’d give everything I have to go with you.”

“As of now, sir, with your permission your name will be posted on the crew list. You will be the only member on TAD elsewhere.”

“Commander, you do that. And just one more thing: if I don’t see you again before you leave here. The admiral stood up. “Good luck.”

“Thank you, sir. We try to make our own luck, along with our drinking water.”

“You will.” The admiral shook hands. “Go on to your briefings and use that brain of yours. If you see anything you don’t like, let us know immediately. We’ve got other submariners here, but none of us pretends to know it all.”

“Thank you, sir.”

When the commander had gone the admiral sat down again and stared at the wall in front of him. Then he turned to look at the small framed portrait of another naval officer that stood on his side table. For several seconds he studied the features of his son and then slowly shook his head. “You’re awfully damn good,” he said softly. “But I couldn’t risk it. I picked the best that we’ve got — now may God help him.”

The warden of the federal penitentiary at Leavenworth had known for some time that he would be replaced. He therefore had all of his records in order, all of his routine work fully current, and everything within the institution that he controlled in the best condition that the circumstances permitted. When he received a phone call which informed him somewhat bruskly that his successor would be there the following day to take over, he leaned back in his chair, considered the situation carefully, and decided that he was ready. He had been planning to retire for some time anyway.

His successor, who arrived alone, was shown into his office shortly after nine o’clock the next morning and afforded him a considerable surprise: he had not been expecting a woman. Because she was an enemy of his country, the warden made her welcome with formal courtesy, wondering as he did so how in the hell she proposed to head up an institution which contained several hundred of the most incorrigible male criminals that the nation had produced. However, that was now her problem.

The new warden sat down and stated her purpose in quite good, if accented, English. “I have arrived to become the head of this prison,” she announced.

The warden waved his arm through the air to suggest the whole of the installation. “Very well; if you have any official documents to establish that fact, I will then formally turn over control to you.”

“It is correct that you should ask that,” the woman answered. “I have such documents and I show them to you gladly if you can read my language.”

The warden shook his head. “I’ll have to take you on faith, then. I had been notified that someone was coming, but to be truthful I was not expecting a lady.”

His successor surprised him by smiling; as she did so she seemed to be, for that moment, a quite agreeable person.

“I understand; you were not told. Nevertheless, I am a penologist. I have been funning a women’s prison, but I was for this one selected because I have the English.”

“You certainly do. I will take as much time as you would like to show you around and acquaint you with all of our facilities.”

“You are very kind — I did not expect this. You may call me Marinka; it is much easier to say than my last name, which it is very difficult for you to pronounce.”

“As you wish, Marinka. My assistant, who is thoroughly acquainted with our entire operation, will be staying on, that is if you wish him to do so.”

“Of course.”

“Good. Then perhaps you would like to begin by sitting here.” Marinka raised her hand. “Please no, I am comfortable here. I have read of your prison and I know already most of the major facts. One question I must ask: do you have any inmates now who are special problems or troublesome?”

The warden considered that for a moment. “No, not really. All of our inmates, or the great majority of them certainly, are hard cases, but we have them well controlled. We have Wattles here, as I expect you know. He has been one of our problems, but I presume you will be releasing him shortly.”

“His term — it is almost up?”

“No, but you know who Wattles is, don’t you?”

“Please to help me.”

“He is, or was, our most aggressive black militant. He is due in for quite a while yet, but you might recall that he has been one of the prime forces in supporting — your cause.”

“What was his offense?” Marinka asked.

“Almost everything in the book, actually. He has done several murders — also arson, sexual offenses, armed robbery, and a number of instances of inciting to riot, desecrating the flag — which is a rather serious offense over here, by the way — and quite a few lesser violations. He is in for mayhem; his victim was a federal judge.”

“I am instructed,” Marinka said slowly, “to operate this prison as I myself best see fit. This includes the privilege of granting parole which I know that you do not have. But I see no reason to turn loose such a man as that.”

It was hard for the warden, because he did not want to like her and he was doing so in spite of himself. “Your people at home may want him out,” he suggested. “He was quite effective in helping to tear down the power of our government for a while.”

Marinka fumbled in her handbag for a cigarette and waved off the offer of a light. “I understand all that,” she answered. “Now that you remind my memory I recall him and what he did. He is a troublemaker; he would give us as much difficulty as he did you.” She drew on her cigarette and took time in letting the smoke out of her lungs. “I should stop this, I know — but my work, it is nervous exhausting. The Wattles man: I translate for you a phrase that has been used in our history. We will let him rot.”

When Zalinsky rang for him, Hewlitt went into the Oval Room and waited.

“You will call former Senator Fitzhugh, I wish to see him,” Zalinsky said.

Hewlitt bent down to make a note, concealing his surprise by the action.

When he offered no comment, Zalinsky dismissed him. “You will go—”

As soon as he was back in his own office Hewlitt picked up the phone and put in a call to Senator Fitzhugh’s office. He stayed on the line and had the secretary within a matter of seconds. “May I speak to the senator,” he asked. “This is Raleigh Hewlitt at the White House.”

The girl’s voice lacked its usual smoothness. “I’m very sorry, Mr. Hewlitt, but Senator Fitzhugh isn’t taking any calls at all.” She hesitated. “You’ve heard, haven’t you?”

“Yes, I’ve heard.” It was totally inadequate, but he could not think of anything else to say. He forced himself to be a little more businesslike. “You may remember that a short while ago Senator Fitzhugh was quite anxious to have an appointment with Mr. Zalinsky.”

“I remember that.”

“I just left Mr. Zalinsky’s office. He instructed me to get in touch with the senator and tell him that he would like to see him.”

The girl’s voice became tighter over the phone. “Mr. Hewlitt, knowing how he is feeling right now, if you could spare him that I’d appreciate it more than I can tell you. He’s taking it terribly hard. And Mr. Zalinsky being who he is, and representing…” She stopped and let it hang there.

Hewlitt knew that he had to counter that even though he did not want to. “Please believe me. I feel very deeply for the senator and I don’t want to disturb him. I am concerned that if he doesn’t respond within a reasonable time, they might take some kind of action. There’s a policy, you know, not to allow us to go against their wishes in any way. It’s very strict.”

There was a pause on the line. “I’ll speak to him, Mr. Hewlitt, as soon as I feel that I can and see what I can do. He’s literally ill, and you might tell Mr. Zalinsky that. Would you let me have your home number.”

That painful and awkward conversation had only been over for a minute or two before the phone rang. Hewlitt picked it up and acknowledged.

“Hello.” He recognized Barbara’s voice.

“Hello back.”

In contrast to Senator Fitzhugh’s secretary she seemed almost cheerful. “Mary and I are going to have a little housewarming tonight. Nothing very big, but we thought that you might like to come.”

“What time?”

“Whenever you like after eight-thirty. Suit yourself.”

“I’ll see you, then,” Hewlitt said. “Can I bring anything?”

“No, it’s on us tonight. That isn’t a pun, by the way.”

“I didn’t think so.” He hung up with an unresolved question in his mind; it could have been the simple invitation that it seemed, or it could have been the signal that something new was stirring.

On the way home he asked Frank for a fill-in. “There’s been a little reorganizin’ for one thing,” the driver told him. “I’m being given something new. I’m not so sure, but I think maybe you might be seeing Percival tonight.”

“Will you be there?”

“Can’t say — it depends on what he says.”

“Has anything gone wrong?”

“Nothin’ like that, at least I don’t think so.”

After Frank had dropped him off Hewlitt reviewed the setup once more in his mind; when he had finished he was still far from satisfied. It was difficult to come up with a believable reason why two higher-level government girls would choose to move into an old house that was in an essentially Negro neighborhood. The fact that the whole city of Washington was now more than half Negro did not help very much. Frank had said something a while back about establishing a whorehouse, but he had not regarded that remark very seriously.

Shortly after nine he caught a cruising cab and took it to within a block and a half of his destination. He paid the driver and then walked the remaining distance to Davy Jones’ residence and place of business. He could not keep from looking to see whether he was being observed. He was jumpy, he recognized that fact and made a conscious effort to recover his mental equilibrium.

Mary Mulligan opened the door to him and motioned him inside. “Barbara will be down in a minute,” she said and then excused herself. He walked into the living room and found Davy Jones there. The place had been spruced up quite a bit since his last visit; the makeshift bar had been replaced with a quite acceptable new one complete with stools. The floor had been freshly carpeted.

Much of the furniture was also new; it was not of high quality, but it was a major improvement on the pieces which it had replaced. The walls, which had been a somewhat questionable white, had been redone in a light blue which went well with the darker-toned carpeting. New drapes hung at the windows; Hewlitt noticed that they were of heavy material and lined; furthermore they had been hung so that they overlapped instead of meeting in the usual butt joint.

“Evening, Mr. Hewlitt, how do things look to you?” Davy asked. “Very nice — quite an improvement.”

“Some friends of mine helped me with the payments. If we’re going to have young ladies living here, the place has to be classed up a little to make it suitable.”

“I’m with you,” Hewlitt agreed. “Are you going into the rooming-house business?”

Davy looked at him for a moment. “You could put it that way if you want to. It’s a little idea that I had and some of my friends liked it.”

“I see.” He didn’t exactly, but a few things were beginning to take shape for him. “Are there going to be any other guests here tonight?” *

Davy nodded. “He’s upstairs — just got here a few minutes ago. He’s a busy fellow. And some others are coming to the party too.” Hewlitt raised his right hand behind his ear and looked the question at his host. The tall Negro shook his head. “Checked it a few minutes ago; everything’s O.K. Long-range microphones can’t penetrate into here, and nobody’s tried yet to install any equipment. They probably will now, for a time, although there’s been a lot less of that going on lately — I don’t know why.”

Barbara came into the room wearing a green cocktail-length dress that set off her figure to striking advantage. “Hello, Hew,” she said. “How do I look — suitable for a high-class brothel?”

“Based on hearsay evidence only,” Hewlitt answered her, “I’d say you’re perfect. I’m ready to become the first customer.”

“When the time comes we’ll see. Right now, believe it or not, officially I’m a virgin — and it’s all your fault. Davy, fix me a drink, will you?”

In response, Davy went behind the bar and from there surveyed

Barbara with careful appraisal. “Damn it all,” he said, “why did you have to get yourself born white?”

“We all have our problems,” she answered him.

The doorbell rang; Davy went and ushered in Cedric Culp, the White House press secretary. Despite the nature of his job he was inclined to be somewhat quiet and seldom had a great deal to say that was not of an official nature. He was a short, stocky man, but he had played football in college and had a reputation as an athlete. During the winter months he was gone many weekends up to the ski slopes.

“Evening, Hew,” he said. He shook hands with Davy Jones and greeted Barbara with a frank admiration of her appearance. “The best in the house,” he said.

“Mary is supposed to be your girl friend — remember.”

Culp turned serious. “I will. Only it’s hard sometimes; Marion may hear some gossip.”

The doorbell rang once more. Davy answered it and admitted two of the secret service men normally assigned to the White House detail. Barbara motioned them to sit down. “This is all that are coming,” she told Davy. “I thought it best not to have us all here together the first time.”

“Good idea,” Culp agreed.

When the newcomers had settled down Barbara informally took the floor. “Tonight we’re due for a briefing from one of the higher placed people in our organization. His code name is Percival; that’s all I can tell you, except that I’ll know how to recognize him. Hew, you’ve met him, haven’t you?”

Hewlitt nodded. “Yes, the man I’ve been working for introduced me.” He stopped when he heard a sound behind him, turned, and saw Percival coming into the room.

There was no need for introductions. Percival took one of the bar stools and swung around to face the group. He looked at Barbara for a moment and then asked, “Are you satisfied as to my identity?”

“Yes,” Barbara answered. “And now that I’ve seen you, I know who you are.”

“Do I have your confidence?”

“Absolutely.” She spoke the word without emphasis, but with full meaning.

Percival looked around. “The rest of you, except for Hew and Davy, will have to take me on faith.” He surveyed the group once more. “I know each of you well by reputation, so from my standpoint, at least, we aren’t meeting for the first time. I know what you have been doing over the past several weeks and I know too that each of you has been implicitly following the instructions that were passed on to you.”

“That wasn’t much,” one of the secret service men said.

“It was a great deal,” Percival corrected him. “You’ve collectively provided us with more valuable information than you may realize. It’s helped us. So much so that we’re moving this unit closer to the center of our operation. I’ll be working with you directly as well as through Barbara’s contact and Davy here.”

“Something’s moving, then,” Culp said.

“Something is. You may not know this, but we have a large and highly competent organization. And we’re not powerless. This is all totally secret information; don’t discuss it, even here. Now, because of the importance of your location, and the level of talent that you represent, I’ve been instructed to tell you that there is a central nucleus that’s running this outfit. We call it the First Team, and you’d better believ^ that they are. They’re all men of extraordinary capacity and they aren’t working in the dark. They’re on the job continuously and they have resources — more than you might imagine. You can thank God for that.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” the other secret service man said.

Percival stopped while Davy put a drink in his hand; he sampled it and then spoke his thanks. “Now about this house,” he went on. “It’s protected in a good many ways. It has certain features which make it all but impossible to bug without our knowing it immediately. Some useful equipment is stored here. And if it becomes necessary, we have a way of getting you out; not a sure one, but it’s a good bet and a lot better than nothing.”

He tried his drink once more and then set the glass down carefully. “Now for the cover for this place. Insofar as the enemy is concerned, and probably the neighbors as well, it’s going to be a private brothel, of which there are a considerable number in this city. We arranged to have both of these young ladies evicted from their quarters. They did a suitable amount of apartment hunting before they came here on Hew’s suggestion — that is if anybody ever asks. We’re moving two more of our girls in here; both of them are totally reliable. Hew, you spoke to one of them on the phone, if you remember. So you see the setup.”

“We come here to see our girls,” Culp said.

“Right, and sometimes spend the night, as anyone would expect. All four of the girls have agreed to this, so their reputations go out the window.”

“That’s not a consideration,” Barbara said.

“Will we be told when to come?” Hewlitt asked.

“Yes, and also you can come on your own for purely social reasons if you’d like. Davy will front as the owner and very tolerant landlord.”

“There really are places like this,” Mary said.

“Lots,” Percival answered her, “so feel easy in your mind. It’s a very good cover for the men coming here. One or two more points that are important: first, if anything happens to me, my replacement, man or woman, will be Rodney. Secondly, when you come in, never say a compromising word until you have looked at the bar first. If there is a bottle standing on it, any kind of a bottle, that will be the danger signal — even if someone is sitting there with it. Pay no attention to what he or she might say about it being all right. If you use the bar, never set the bottle on the top unless you mean it as a definite warning.”

He lowered his head for a moment or two; when he looked up his face was possibly a shade more serious than it had been before. “I’ll tell you this,” he said. “The work you’re doing, the risks you’re taking, aren’t for nothing. You’ll know soon enough. When it breaks, some of you may have a lot more to do — you’ll be informed. Stay with it.”

Hewlitt looked at Barbara wondering how all of this sat with her. She looked back at him evenly — clear-eyed and unafraid. At that moment he had a vague stirring, a first realization that perhaps he was falling in love with her. As a woman she was totally desirable, but much more even than that she had an inner strength, an intelligence, that set her way apart from the rest. She could pull her own share and more. She was a helluva girl.

“Any questions?” Percival asked.

“You made it all very clear,” Mary answered him. “We’ll do the best we can.”

There was general agreement, unspoken but indicated just the same.

Barbara was the cell leader, and she summed it up for them all. “God bless this whorehouse,” she said.

Marc Orberg was impatient and restless. His trip had begun badly when he had discovered that first-class seats had been discontinued by the airplanes and he had been compelled to ride in a seat much too narrow to suit his sense of luxury. Furthermore, the people who had taken places next to him had talked in whispers and then gone to the back of the aircraft to sit by themselves. No one had asked him for his autograph on the whole trip.

To hell with them! They would hear about him again soon enough; in the new role he was about to assume they would be coming to him in droves, begging and pleading for favors. And if there were any good-looking chicks among them, they knew what they could do if they wanted him to help them.

At the beach he was disappointed in the press turnout for the landing. The fact that he would appear in person had not been adequately announced, although Nat had sent out all of the usual notices. However the hour was still early, he had seen to that so that no misguided publicity seekers would be there ahead of him to get in his way. To be sure that he would be recognized by everyone on sight, those who were landing and those who had come to witness the spectacle, he had put on his trademark clothing: the laced shirt, the tight trousers, the high-topped shoes. There was only one Marc Orberg — there could be only one because no one else had his combination of looks, talent, and solid cast-iron guts. He was afraid of nothing and nobody; he had proven that when he had busted the whole damn United States Government with the Orberg decision against the draft.

He walked a few steps up and down. There was no son-of-a-bitch in the whole Goddamned world who could stand up to him. He had never been to Sweden, but he knew that they adored him there because his parents had been Swedish and because no one had ever punished the establishment the way that he had. They liked that kind of thing in Sweden. He tossed his head back and looked up into the sky. He let his imagination take over for a short while and visualized himself, still youthful and full of the vigor that made him great, standing before the Royal Academy and receiving the Nobel Prize — the youngest man ever to be so honored.

He broke the chain of that daydream and came back to the present; the limited number of people who had come to see the show were looking seaward and pointing. He looked himself and saw in the clearing visibility that the ships were there, closer than he had expected them to be. The operation would be under way on the beach well within the hour; from the looks of the flotilla the place where he had stationed himself was close to ideal. He sat down to rest himself for a few minutes and to think about the speech of greeting he was going to make. From his vantage point he surveyed the beach and saw that there were now press photographers on hand; actually one good one connected with the wire services was all that he needed, two or three made it sure. He spotted at least half a dozen, so that part of the operation was well in hand.

He lay down on the sand, chewing on a straw that he had plucked, and looked into the sky. Once more he felt the total satisfaction of knowing that he would not be willing to trade places with any man in the world — he had everything that money could buy and he was going to have a great deal more. There were light cumulus clouds floating overhead, he amused himself by studying them and picking out the fanciful shapes that suggested themselves to him.

He was aware that there were more spectators gathering — some of them, most of them in fact, would have come to see him. If he showed himself he would be mobbed and would have to scrawl signatures on a wild assortment of pieces of paper, including matchbook covers. He was happy where he was, the peace of the seashore was affecting him and he was enjoying it as an interlude, a moment of calm in his striking and extraordinary life.

He lifted his head enough to see what was happening on the water. The ships were close in now and the first of them were putting landing craft into the water. It was too early for him to appear. The first boat, that would be larger than the others, would be the one he wanted; it would contain a commander of sorts; he would tip off the press and then make his speech of welcome officially to him. That would infuriate about a hundred million Americans at the least and every one of them would be reminded again that Marc Orberg was king and there wasn’t a damn thing they could do about it.

It was some forty minutes later when he spotted the landing craft he was looking for. It was, as he had anticipated, larger than the others and there would be vehicles on board which a commander would use. It would be landing a little way up the beach, which was fine; the more people who saw him running to meet it the better. That was what he wanted them to do; once again he had outsmarted the whole pack and they would find it out, as they always did, just a little too late. The announcement had been made, of course, but one of the secrets of his success was that he always produced more than anyone expected. He wouldn’t disappoint them this time.

It was essential that he time the thing exactly right. He rose from his semi-hiding place; then began to run down the beach at an easy lope which showed off the play of his muscles under his tight clothing and gave everyone a good chance to recognize him. The distance was a bit more than he had realized, or else the exertion of runnir^g in the sand pulled on him more than he had expected, so that when he reached the scene where the vehicles were rolling ashore he was slightly out of breath. He stood there, letting his chest rise and fall, watching the stolid-faced men who were coming up onto the beach, rifles in their hands, puppets engaged in mock warfare against an enemy which did not exist — on the beach or anywhere else in the world anymore. They were the conquerors, nameless numbers on a military roster who knew only how to do what they had been told.

One of them, a minor noncommissioned officer of some sort, waved him aside. Marc laughed at him; the man did not know who he was, of course, and that excused him.

He spotted the commander without difficulty. He could not read the ranks on the uniforms, but the way in which the man conducted himself revealed him at once as the person in charge. The precision with which the door of his vehicle was snapped open and held for him indicated his importance. It was an absurd little panel hardly a foot high which made it slightly easier to mount into the otherwise open military-type car, but it was enough to symbolize his authority. As the commander came up the beach with properly impressive strides, Marc fell in beside him and with his breath still a little short asked, “Do you understand English?”

The commander glanced at him for just a moment and then answered his question by saying, “Go away.”

That was all that Marc needed. “I’m here to welcome you,” he half shouted. Out of the corner of his eye he had detected a press photographer aiming at him and he wanted to be sure that he was heard.

“No,” the commander said, and strode on.

“I’m Marc Orberg,” he announced, his breath coming a bit harder as he sought to keep up with the man who had not been running for the last few minutes. “Marc Orberg!”

The commander ignored him.

That was impossible; Nat, the damn fool, should have told them to expect him, he should have arranged to have the commander briefed in advance. With the man he was trying to greet ignoring him he was running the risk of being made ridiculous in front of the press and all of the spectators. He knew immediately that he could not recoup by waiting for the next important-appearing person; his initial failure would be reported gleefully from coast to coast. The muttonhead in the stiff uniform would have to be made to listen.

Marc spurted forward, then turned and faced the man squarely as he came on. Then he held out his hand, a gesture that could not be ignored. If the jerk didn’t understand enough English it really didn’t matter. There were three photographers now; they seemed to have come up out of the sand.

“Welcome to America!” Marc recited. “For decades this country has suffered under the lecherous greed of the capitalists. You have come.

The commander thrust out his arm and brushed him aside. Then he mounted stiffly into his vehicle.

Full-blown rage took hold of Orberg. He had worked and suffered for these people, he had paved the way for them more than any man who had ever lived and this was his thanks, the gratitude due him! As the vehicle began to move slowly in the sand he ran alongside. “You have come to make us free of the.

The commander was ignoring him, making him totally ridiculous before the whole world. “Listen to me, you goddamned pig,” he shouted, “I’m MARC ORBERG and.

The commander leaned sharply forward and barked a command to an aide sitting in the right front seat. The man responded at once; Marc saw him as he jerked out a pistol, saw the vicious weapon abruptly pointed at his own abdomen, and heard the blast of the shot.

A stab of sudden pain almost paralyzed him; with frightful speed it grew and became unbearable. His knees failed him; the soft sand suddenly became a morass. His lungs pounded in unfelt pain because of the burning horror in his belly; he pitched forward and for an instant felt the hard thump of the sand against his face.

The pain engulfed him; the agony became so frightful that his mind refused to do anything but focus on it in total desperation. He did not even know his own name anymore — only the all-consuming fire of incarnate hell that was raging in his body. He tried to kick his legs to mitigate the agony, but he could not tell if they had responded or not. Then, consumingly, he wanted to die; desperately he wanted death to terminate the intolerable pain he could not endure for another second. He tried to cry out to his god, but he had none to answer him.

Then he knew that he had been picked up. It came through to him that he was being carried, then the pain became the whole universe, consuming him alive. When he was thrown down, the hard contact with the ground went unfelt, for in the last moments before the two uniformed bearers cast him aside, consciousness left him and he entered into a world of total darkness.