“Where’d they go?” Silberman demanded hoarsely, as he appeared at the mouth of the passage. His right arm had been torn away by Lanoir’s blast. The stump was seared hard.
“I got one of them.” Daniels and O’Keefe approached the inert figure warily. “It’s Portbane. That leaves Tate. We got three of the four. Not bad, on such short notice.”
“Tate’s damn smart,” Silberman panted. “I think he suspected.”
He scanned the darkness around them. Soldiers, returning from the gas attack, came hurrying up. Searchlights rumbled toward the scene of the shooting. Off in the distance, sirens wailed.
“Which way did he go?” Daniels asked.
“Over toward the bog.”
O’Keefe moved cautiously along the narrow street. The others came slowly behind.
“You were the first to realize,” Horstokowski said to Silberman. “For a while, I believed the test. Then I realized we were being tricked—the four of them were plotting in unison.”
“I didn’t expect four of them,” Silberman admitted. “I knew there was at least one Terran spy among us. But Lanoir …”
“I always knew Lanoir was a Terran agent,” O’Keefe declared flatly. “I wasn’t surprised at the test results. They gave themselves away by faking their findings.”
Silberman waved over a group of soldiers. “Have Tate picked up and brought here. He’s somewhere at the periphery of the camp.”
The soldiers hurried away, dazed and muttering. Alarm bells dinned shrilly on all sides. Figures scampered back and forth. Like a disturbed ant colony, the whole camp was alive with excitement.
“In other words,” Daniels said, “the four of them really saw the same as we. They saw B as the positive sample, but they put down A instead.”
“They knew we’d put down B,” O’Keefe said, “since B was the positive sample taken from the attack site. All they had to do was record the opposite. The results seemed to substantiate Lanoir’s paranoid theory, which was why Portbane set up the test in the first place. It was planned a long time ago—part of their overall job.”
“Lanoir dug up the tapes in the first place!” Daniels exclaimed. “Fisher and he planted them down in the ruins of the ship. Portbane got us to accept his testing device.”
“What were they trying to do?” Silberman asked suddenly. “Why were they trying to convince us we’re paranoids?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” O’Keefe replied. “They wanted us to turn ourselves in. The Terran monkey men naturally are trying to choke off the race that’s going to supplant them. We won’t surrender, of course. The four of them were clever—they almost had me convinced. When the results flashed up five to four, I had a momentary doubt. But then I realized what an intricate strategy they had worked out.”
Horstokowski examined his B-pistol. “I’d like to get hold of Tate and wring the whole story from him, the whole damn account of their planning, so we’d have it in black and white.”
“You’re still not convinced?” Daniels inquired.
“Of course. But I’d like to hear him admit it.”
“I doubt if well see Tate again,” O’Keefe said. “He must have reached the Terran lines by now. He’s probably sitting in a big inter-system military transport, giving his story to gold-braid Terran officials. I’ll bet they’re moving up heavy guns and shock troops while we stand here.”
“We’d better get busy,” Daniels said sharply. “We’ll repair the ship and load it with H-bombs. After we wipe out their bases here, we’ll carry the war to them. A few raids on the Sol System ought to teach them to leave us alone.”
Horstokowski grinned. “It’ll be an uphill fight—we’re alone against a whole galaxy. But I think we’ll take care of them. One of us is worth a million Terran monkey men.”
Tate lay trembling in the dark tangle of weeds. Dripping black stalks of nocturnal vegetables clutched and stirred around him. Poisonous night insects slithered across the surface of the fetid bog.
He was covered with slime. His clothing was torn and ripped. Somewhere along the way, he had lost his B-pistol. His right shoulder ached; he could hardly move his arm. Bones broken, probably. He was too numb and dazed to care. He lay facedown in the sticky muck and closed his eyes.
He didn’t have a chance. Nobody survived in the bogs. He feebly smashed an insect oozing across his neck. It squirmed in his hand and then, reluctantly, died. For a long time, its dead legs kicked.
The probing stalk of a stinging snail began tracing webs across Tate’s inert body. As the sticky pressure of the snail crept heavily onto him, he heard the first faint far-off sounds of the camp going into action. For a time, it meant nothing to him. Then he understood—and shuddered miserably, helplessly.
The first phase of the big offensive against Earth was already moving into high gear.
END