Nine by Laumer Read online

  Straut wanted to interrupt, announce his victory, but Margrave was droning on.

  “… strange sort of reasoning, but there was a certain analogy.

  In any event, I’m assured the translation is accurate. Here’s how it reads in English …”

  Straut listened. Then he carefully placed the receiver back on the hook.

  Lieberman stared at him.

  ‘‘What did it say?”

  Straut cleared his throat. He turned and looked at Lieberman for a long moment before answering.

  “It said, ‘Please take good care of my little girl.’

  THE LONG REMEMBERED THUNDER

  I

  In his room at the Elsby Commercial Hotel, Tremaine opened his luggage and took out a small tool kit, used a screwdriver to remove the bottom cover plate from the telephone. He inserted a tiny aluminum cylinder, crimped wires and replaced the cover. Then he dialed a long-distance Washington number and waited half a minute for the connection.

  “Fred, Tremaine here. Put the buzzer on.” A thin hum sounded on the wire as the scrambler went into operation.

  “Okay, can you read me all right? I’m set up in Elsby. Grammond’s boys are supposed to keep me informed. Meantime, I’m not sitting in this damned room crouched over a dial. I’ll be out and around for the rest of the afternoon.”

  “I want to see results,” the thin voice came back over the filtered hum of the jamming device. “You spent a week with Grammond— I can’t wait another. I don’t mind telling you certain quarters are pressing me.”

  “Fred, when will you learn to sit on your news breaks until you’ve got some answers to go with the questions?”

  “I’m an appointive official,” Fred said sharply. “But never mind that. This fellow Margrave—General Margrave, Project Officer for the hyperwave program—he’s been on my neck day and night. I can’t say I blame him. An unauthorized transmitter interfering with a Top Secret project, progress slowing to a halt, and this Bureau—”

  “Look, Fred. I was happy in the lab. Headaches, nightmares and all. Hyperwave is my baby, remember? You elected me to be a leg-man; now let me do it my way.”

  “I felt a technical man might succeed where a trained investigator could be misled. And since it seems to be pinpointed in your home area—”

  “You don’t have to justify yourself. Just don’t hold out on me. I sometimes wonder if I’ve seen the complete files on this—”

  “You’ve seen all the files! Now I want answers, not questions! I’m warning you, Tremaine. Get that transmitter. I need someone to hang!”

  Tremaine left the hotel, walked two blocks west along Commerce Street and turned in at a yellow brick building with the words ELSBY MUNICIPAL POLICE cut in the stone lintel above the door. Inside, a heavy man with a creased face and thick gray hair looked up from behind an ancient Underwood. He studied Tremaine, shifted a toothpick to the opposite corner of his mouth.

  “Don’t I know you, mister?” he said. His soft voice carried a note of authority.

  Tremaine took off his hat. “Sure you do, Jess. It’s been a while, though.”

  The policeman got to his feet. “Jimmy,” he said, “Jimmy Tremaine.” He came to the counter and put out his hand. “How are you, Jimmy? What brings you back to the boondocks?”

  “Let’s go somewhere and sit down, Jess.”

  In a back room Tremaine said, “To everybody but you this is just a visit to the old home town. Between us, there’s more.”

  Jess nodded. “I heard you were with the guv’ment.”

  “It won’t take long to tell; we don’t know much yet.” Tremaine covered the discovery of the powerful unidentified interference on the high-security hyperwave band, the discovery that each transmission produced not one but a pattern of “fixes” on the point of origin. He passed a sheet of paper across the table. It showed a set of concentric circles, overlapped by a similar group of rings.

  “I think what we’re getting is an echo effect from each of these points of intersection. The rings themselves represent the diffraction pattern—”

  “Hold it, Jimmy. To me it just looks like a beer ad. I’ll take your word for it.”

  “The point is this, Jess: we think we’ve got it narrowed down to this section. I’m not sure of a damn thing, but I think that transmitter’s near here. Now, have you got any ideas?”

  “That’s a tough one, Jimmy. This is where I should come up with the news that Old Man Whatchamacallit’s got an attic full of gear he says is a time machine. Trouble is, folks around here haven’t even taken to TV. They figure we should be content with radio, like the Lord intended.”

  “I didn’t expect any easy answers, Jess. But I was hoping maybe you had something …”

  “Course,” said Jess, “there’s always Mr. Bram …”

  “Mr. Bram,” repeated Tremaine. “Is he still around? I remember him as a hundred years old when I was a kid.”

  “Still just the same, Jimmy. Comes in town maybe once a week, buys his groceries and hikes back out to his place by the river.”

  “Well, what about him?”

  “Nothing. But he’s the town’s mystery man. You know that. A little touched in the head.”

  “There were a lot of funny stories about him, I remember,” Tremaine said. “I always liked him. One time he tried to teach me something; I’ve forgotten what. Wanted me to come out to his place and he’d teach me. I never did go. We kids used to play in the caves near his place, and sometimes he gave us apples.”

  “I’ve never seen any harm in Bram,” said Jess. “But you know how this town is about foreigners, especially when they’re a mite addled. Bram has blue eyes and blond hair—or did before it turned white—and he talks just like everybody else. From a distance he seems just like an ordinary American. But up close, you feel it* He’s foreign, all right. But we never did know where he came from.”

  “How long’s he lived here in Elsby?”

  “Beats me, Jimmy. You remember old Aunt Tress, used to know all about ancestors and such as that? She couldn’t remember about Mr. Bram. She was kind of senile, I guess. She used to say he’d lived in that same old place out on the Concord road when she was a girl. Well, she died five years ago … in her seventies. He still walks in town every Wednesday … or he did up till yesterday, anyway.”

  “Oh?” Tremaine stubbed out his cigarette, lit another. “What happened then?”

  “You remember Soup Gaskin? He’s got a boy, name of Hull. He’s Soup all over again.”

  “I remember Soup,” Tremaine said. “He and his bunch used to come in the drug store where I worked and perch on the stools and kid around with me, and Mr. Hempleman would watch them from over back of the prescription counter and look nervous. They used to raise Cain in the other drug store …”

  “Soup’s been in the pen since then. His boy Hull’s the same kind. Him and a bunch of his pals went out to Bram’s place one night and set it on fire.”

  “What was the idea of that?”

  “Dunno. Just meanness, I reckon. Not much damage done. A car was passing by and called it in. I had the whole caboodle locked up here for six hours. Then the sob sisters went to work: poor little tyke routine, high spirits, you know the line. All of ’em but Hull are back in the streets playin’ with matches by now. I’m waiting for the day they’ll make jail age.”

  “Why Bram?” Tremaine persisted. “As far as I know, he never had any dealings to speak of with anybody here in town.”

  “Oh hoh, you’re a little young, Jimmy,” Jess chuckled. “You never knew about Mr. Bram—the young Mr. Bram—and Linda Carroll.”

  Tremaine shook his head.

  “Old Miss Carroll. School teacher here for years; guess she was retired by the time you were playing hookey. But her dad had money, and in her day she was a beauty. Too good for the fellers in these parts. I remember her ridin by in* a high-wheeled shay, when I was just a nipper. Sitting up proud and tall, with that red hair piled up high. I used t
o think she was some kind of princess …”

  “What about her and Bram? A romance?”

  Jess rocked his chair back on two legs, looked at the ceiling, frowning. “This would ha’ been about nineteen-oh-one. I was no more’n eight years old. Miss Linda was maybe in her twenties— and that made her an old maid, in those times. The word got out she was setting her cap for Bram. He was a good-looking young feller then, over six foot, of course, broad backed, curly yellow hair—and a stranger to boot. Like I said, Linda Carroll wanted nothin to do with the local bucks. There was a big shindy planned. Now, you know Bram was funny about any kind of socializing; never would go any place at night. But this was a Sunday afternoon and someways or other they got Bram down there; and Miss Linda made her play, right there in front of the town, practically. Just before sundown they went off together in that fancy shay. And the next day, she was home again—alone. That finished off her reputation, as far as the biddies in Elsby was concerned. It was ten years ’fore she even landed the teaching job. By that time, she was already old. And nobody was ever fool enough to mention the name Bram in front of her.”

  Tremaine got to his feet. “I’d appreciate it if you’d keep your ears and eyes open for anything that might build into a lead on this, Jess. Meantime, I’m just a tourist, seeing the sights.”

  “What about that gear of yours? Didn’t you say you had some kind of detector you were going to set up?”

  “I’ve got an oversized suitcase,” Tremaine said. “I’ll be setting it up in my room over at the hotel.”

  “When’s this bootleg station supposed to broadcast again?” “After dark. I’m working on a few ideas. It might be an infinitely repeating logarithmic sequence, based on—”

  “Hold it, Jimmy. You’re over my head.” Jess got to his feet. “Let me know if you want anything. And by the way—” he winked broadly—“I always did know who busted Soup Gaskin’s nose and took out his front teeth.”

  II

  Back in the street, Tremaine headed south toward the Elsby Town Hall, a squat structure of brownish-red brick, crouched under yellow autumn trees at the end of Sheridan Street. Tremaine went up the steps and past heavy double doors. Ten yards along the dim corridor, a hand-lettered cardboard sign over a black-varnished door said “MUNICIPAL OFFICE OF RECORD.” Tremaine opened the door and went in.

  A thin man with garters above the elbow looked over his shoulder at Tremaine.

  “We’re closed,” he said.

  “I won’t be a minute,” Tremaine said. “Just want to check on when the Bram property changed hands last.”

  The man turned to Tremaine, pushing a drawer shut with his hip. “Bram? He dead?”

  “Nothing like that. I just want to know when he bought the place.”

  The man came over to the counter, eyeing Tremaine. “He ain’t going to sell, mister, if that’s what you want to know.”

  “I want to know when he bought.”

  The man hesitated, closed his jaw hard. “Come back tomorrow,” he said.

  Tremaine put a hand on the counter, looked thoughtful. “I was hoping to save a trip.” He lifted his hand and scratched the side of his jaw. A folded bill opened on the counter. The thin man’s eyes darted toward it. His hand eased out, covered the bill. He grinned quickly.

  “See what I can do,” he said.

  It was ten minutes before he beckoned Tremaine over to the table where a two-foot-square book lay open. An untrimmed fingernail indicated a line written in faded ink:

  “May 19, Acreage sold, One Dollar and other G&V consid.

  NW Quarter Section 24, Township Elsby. Bram. (see Vol. 9 & cet.)”

  “Translated, what does that mean?” said Tremaine.

  “That’s the ledger for 1901; means Bram bought a quarter section on the nineteenth of May. You want me to look up the deed?”

  “No, thanks,” Tremaine said. “That’s all I needed.” He turned back to the door.

  “What’s up, mister?” the clerk called after him. “Bram in some kind of trouble?”

  “No. No trouble.”

  The man was looking at the book with pursed lips. “Nineteen-oh-one,” he said. “I never thought of it before, but you know, old Bram must be dem near to ninety years old. Spry for that age.”

  “I guess you’re right.”

  The clerk looked sideways at Tremaine. “Lots of funny stories about old Bram. Useta say his place was haunted. You know; funny noises and lights. And they used to say there was money buried out at his place.”

  “I’ve heard those stories. Just superstition, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Maybe so.” The clerk leaned on the counter, assumed a knowing look. “There’s one story that’s not superstition . .

  Tremaine waited.

  “You—uh—paying anything for information?”

  “Now why would I do that?” Tremaine reached for the door knob.

  The clerk shrugged. “Thought I’d ask. Anyway—I can swear to this. Nobody in this town’s ever seen Bram between sundown and sunup.”

  Untrimmed sumacs threw late-afternoon shadows on the discolored stucco facade of the Elsby Public Library. Inside, Tremaine followed a paper-dry woman of indeterminate age to a rack of yellowed newsprint.

  “You’ll find back to nineteen-forty here,” the librarian said. “The older are there in the shelves.”

  “I want nineteen-oh-one, if they go back that far.”

  The woman darted a suspicious look at Tremaine. “You have to handle these old papers carefully.”

  “I’ll be extremely careful.” The woman sniffed, opened a drawer, leafed through it, muttering.

  “What date was it you wanted?”

  “Nineteen-oh-one; the week of May nineteenth.”

  The librarian pulled out a folded paper, placed it on the table, adjusted her glasses, squinted at the front page. “That’s it,” she said. “These papers keep pretty well, provided they’re stored in the dark. But they’re still flimsy, mind you.”

  “I’ll remember.” The woman stood by as Tremaine looked over the front page. The lead article concerned the opening of the Pan-American Exposition at Buffalo. Vice-President Roosevelt had made a speech. Tremaine leafed over, reading slowly.

  On page four, under a column headed County Notes he saw the name Bram:

  Mr. Bram has purchased a quarter section of fine grazing land, north of town, together with a sturdy house, from J. P. Spivey of Elsby. Mr. Bram will occupy the home and will continue to graze a few head of stock. Mr. Bram, who is a newcomer to the county, has been a resident of Mrs. Stoate’s Guest Home in Elsby for the past months.

  “May I see some earlier issues; from about the first of the year?”

  The librarian produced the papers. Tremaine turned the pages, read the heads, skimmed an article here and there. The librarian went back to her desk. An hour later, in the issue for July 7, 1900, an item caught his eye:

  A Severe Thunderstorm. Citizens of Elsby and the country were much alarmed by a violent cloudburst, accompanied by lightning and thunder, during the night of the fifth. A fire set in the pine woods north of Spivey’s farm destroyed a considerable amount of timber and threatened the house before burning itself out along the river.

  The librarian was at Tremaine’s side. “I have to close the library now. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”

  Outside, the sky was sallow in the west; lights were coming on in windows along the side streets. Tremaine turned up his collar against a cold wind that had risen, started along the street toward the hotel.

  A block away a black late-model sedan rounded a corner with a faint squeal of tires and gunned past him, a heavy antenna mounted forward of the left rear tail fin whipping in the slipstream. Tremaine stopped short, stared after the car.

  “Damn!” he said aloud. An elderly man veered, eyeing him sharply. Tremaine set off at a run, covered the two blocks to the hotel, yanked open the door to his car, slid into the seat, made a U-tum, and headed north after the
police car.

  Two miles into the dark hills north of the Elsby city limits, Tremaine rounded a curve. The police car was parked on the shoulder beside the highway just ahead. He pulled off the road ahead of it and walked back. The door opened. A tall figure stepped out.

  “What’s your problem, mister?” a harsh voice drawled.

  “What’s the matter? Run out of signal?”

  “What’s it to you, mister?”

  “Are you boys in touch with Grammond on the car set?”

  “We could be.”

  “Mind if I have a word with him? My name’s Tremaine.”

  “Oh,” said the cop, “you’re the big shot from Washington.” He shifted chewing tobacco to the other side of his jaw. “Sure, you can talk to him.” He turned and spoke to the other cop, who muttered into the mike before handing it to Tremaine.

  The heavy voice of the State Police chief crackled. “What’s your beef, Tremaine?”

  “I thought you were going to keep your men away from Elsby until I gave the word, Grammond.”

  “That was before I knew your Washington stuffed shirts were holding out on me.”

  “It’s nothing we can go to court with, Grammond. And the job you were doing might have been influenced if I’d told you about the Elsby angle.”

  Grammond cursed. “I could have put my men in the town and taken it apart brick by brick in the time—”

  “That’s just what I don’t want. If our bird sees cops cruising, he’ll go underground.”

  “You’ve got it all figured, I see. I’m just the dumb hick you boys use for the spade work, that it?”

  “Full your lip back in. You’ve given me the confirmation I needed.”

  “Confirmation, hell! All I know is that somebody somewhere is punching out a signal. For all I know, it’s forty midgets on bicycles, pedalling all over the damned state. I’ve got fixes in every county—”

  “The smallest hyperwave transmitter Uncle Sam knows how to build weighs three tons,” said Tremaine. “Bicycles are out.”