The Hellhound Project - Ron Goulart, ebook, CALIBRE SFF 1970s, Temp 2
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//-->IThe mechanical cop came roving through the ninth floor of the Plaza Hotel, swinging his electricnightstick. "Time's up there," he said as he jabbed at the inhabitant of one plastic cot and then another.Dawn light was beginning to show dimly at the barred windows. Heavy rain continued to fall.A lean scraggly man sat up, massaged his face with scabby hands. "I still got an hour, you dumb tincan." He pointed at the ticking meter beside his cot.The robot flophouse cop rolled on, poking his stick into sleepers whose meter time had run out."Time's up there. Rise and shine." He stopped beside another flopcot. "Off your ox, buddy." He repeatedthis twice before holstering his shock stick to grab at the fat man sprawled on the raveled thermalblanket.From the next bed a black man in a tattered jumpsuit said, "You got yourself one for the CadaverService, cop.""Time's up there," the mechanical cop told the fat man as he shook him by the shoulders. "Rise andshine."The black man, yawning and lowering his feet to the floor, said, "Cardiac thing, I'd guess."Two cots to the left of the dead man, Thad McIntosh awoke. He shook his head from side to side,gulped in the thick musky air of the flophouse. Thad was twenty-eight, long and lanky. Right now he wasabout fifteen pounds underweight, had a three-day beard and a scabby scar on his forehead. He wasdressed in a pair of thin track slacks and a surplus coat from the Brazilian war of 2018. Rubbing hiscrusty eyes, he told the mechanical rouster, "The guy's dead, leave him alone."The Negro grinned at Thad. "I'm glad you agree with my diagnosis of the stiff. Did you used to be adoctor?""Nope." Thad untied his all-season boots, which he'd fastened around his neck for the night."I was. It's an interesting story how I fell from grace.""It always is." Thad put on his boots, yawned."No, I didn't always live on Manhattan.""This man is deceased," announced the mechanical cop.Thad ran a hand through his dark tangled hair, wincing whenever he came to a lump or a bruisedspot.The lean scraggly man was sitting up again. "Jesus, I don't like to be around when people die," hecomplained as Thad passed him."You came to the wrong island," said Thad."Who had a choice?"The Plaza elevators still weren't working. Thad used the stairs. After three flights he found he waswheezing and panting. He halted on a landing, taking slow, careful breaths. Feeling absently into hisjacket pocket he discovered a twenty-dollar silver piece. Enough for breakfast anyway. He had norecollection of why he had the money. It was his impression he'd stuck his last ten bucks into the bedmeter.The night doormen were going off duty, turning their stun rifles over to the three men on the morningshift. Campfires were smoldering all over Central Park, their smoke mingling with the gray rain and thethin light of this November daybreak."Maybe I should have slept in the park last night," Thad said to himself. "Then I'd have thirty thismorning instead of twenty."A Cadaver Service doublegator ship came hovering down through the heavy rain to land at one ofthe entrances to the park. It retracted its wings, went wheeling through raw fields and bare trees to gatherup the men who'd died there last night."On second thought," said Thad, "I guess I'm glad I didn't."The faxprint robot who sold theManhattan Timesnear the ruined fountain across from the Plazawas lying on its back, cashbox ripped open, alarm bell still faintly tinkling. Thad stopped long enough tomake sure the looter hadn't missed any change, then moved on.Another CS doublegator was flying low overhead. It drifted on, landing on Fifth Avenue wherethere'd been a nightgang skirmish.The rain kept on falling, cold and hard. When Thad passed Alfie's Pub in the Fifties the battered oldchef robot out front said, "All you can eat, 'bo. Only fifteen smackers."Thad slowed. The pub food wasn't that bad and fifteen dollars wasn't a bad price for breakfast, eventhough "all you can eat" probably meant a second slice of soytoast and an extra glass of near-juice. Thadwent inside.The familiar smell of old wood and urine. One of the stained-glass pub windows was still intact and itthrew watery kaleidoscope patterns on the bare noryl plastic tabletops. About a half dozen rundown menwere seated around the place. The scent of maple syrup was being piped out of the scent-valves underthe beamed ceiling.Thad walked on back to the serving counter. A huge headless robot with six silver arms presidedover the food. "Hotcakes, sausage and hash browns," ordered Thad."Let's see the color of your money," said a voice from the speaker grid in the huge robot's stomach."Here." Thad held up his silver piece, gripping it tight between thumb and forefinger.A silver palm came reaching out to Thad. "Put 'er there." A slot in the center of the hand glowed."Breakfast is only fifteen dollars, isn't it? I get five bucks change.""You'll get it, buddy. Fork over."Thad stuck the money in the slot, the hand was withdrawn. He waited a few seconds before asking,"Where's my five dollars?""You ordered hotcakes, sausage and hashbrowns," said the voice box. "You want those made out ofsoy or kelp?""I want my five bucks.""Myself, I'd recommend soy.""Damn it." Thad put his hands on the edge of the metal counter which separated him from the bigserving mechanism. "Give me my damn change and . . . ow!" An electric charge came sizzling through thecounter. It made Thad fling his hands up, bite down hard with his teeth. He felt a little dizzy, his left legdidn't seem quite in control.While he was still swaying in front of the big robot, two human hands grabbed his arms. "We don'tlike troublemakers here, bud. Manhattan may be ninety-nine percent crooks and deadbeats, but Alfie'sPub strives to maintain its tone.""Give me my money.""We're on to that dodge, too," said the large gray-haired man who had hold of him. "Out with younow, and don't come panhandling around Alfie's again.""God-damn it, you're not going to screw me out of the whole twenty.""Out, out." The big man hustled Thad to the door, shoved him into the rain-filled morning.Thad went dancing sideways across the rutted pavement, stumbled at the curb, fell on one knee intothe gutter. He grimaced, got up, his nostrils flaring. "That's my last twenty."A clean-shaven blond young man was standing in front of the pub entrance now. "Wait," he said."You another damn bouncer?""I have nothing whatsoever to do with this place," the blond young man assured him. "But perhaps Ican help you." He put a hand against Thad's chest. "You're Thad McIntosh, aren't you?"Thad blinked, then nodded. "Yeah. I don't know you, though. Do I?""I'm recruiting people for a—""Nope," said Thad, shaking his head. "I don't want a job. I had one of those once, plus a wife and ahouse in Westchester. That was back in . . . back in 2027. Three long years ago, that was. I don't wantany of that anymore.""This is only a part-time job," explained the young man. "A few hours of work at most. We'll pay youtwo hundred dollars.""Two hundred dollars?" Thad took a step back on the wet street. "To do what?""A simple few hours of work, work in your own line.""I was an account man with Persuasion-Tronics. You're talking about some kind of ad work?""More or less." The blond young man slid a hand into an inner pocket of his waterproof tunic. "Here'stwenty dollars. That was what you lost, wasn't it?"Thad reached out for the silver piece. "Yeah.""Think of this as a bonus for an anticipated job well done." From the same inner pocket he took ablue fax card. "You know where the library ruin is?""Forty-second and Fifth? I've slept there quite a bit.""There's a boarded-up soy-doughnut shop directly across. Take this card to Mr. Ferber there. He'sdoing our recruiting."Thad pocketed the card. "How do you know I won't simply take your twenty bucks and wanderoff?""I know enough about you to think you won't," replied the young man. "Besides, I can always findyou again.""How can you—""Better get going. Mr. Ferber will be anxious to see you.""O.K.," said Thad. "O.K., and thanks." He started off in the rain toward Forty-second Street.IIRain was getting into the place. It dripped down through zigzag cracks in the low buff ceiling, sizzledaround the dusty light-strip fixtures. The uneven thermal floor glistened with tiny pools of water. Shakinghimself twice, Thad crossed the small room and stopped before the desk against the wall. There was noone behind the desk, but a dented, old-fashioned secbox rested on the edge of a plyoblotter."Mr. Ferber, please," said Thad as he held out the blue fax card toward the machine."Wait your turn," replied the square black secbox.There were four other men in the room, all older than Thad. There were three shaky-legged contourchairs. The fourth man sat on the wet floor, his legs forked straight out in front of him„Thad told the machine, "I thought Ferber was anxious to—""Take a number and wait your turn."Thad noticed a numbered chit easing out of a slot in the secbox. He took it.The man on the floor mentioned, "You can get a cup of syncaf if you ask. While you wait."Thad turned again toward the machine. "Can I get a cup of . . ."A vinyl cup popped out of the back of the secbox and was filled from a chrome nozzle."Compliments of the management."The syncaf was lukewarm, though one of its additives caused it to give off steam. Thad carried itcarefully over to a boarded-up window, then sipped at it. "What kind of job is this exactly?" he asked theman on the floor.The man was forty-two, gray. He had two fresh gashes crossing his upper lip and the teeth he waswearing weren't his. "Not exactly sure," he said. "Supposed to require some brains. Had some once.May still. Used to be a home-book machine repairman and . . ."Thad squatted down beside the man and stopped listening. It was a knack he'd developed towardthe end of his first year on Manhattan. He drank his tepid imitation coffee, let his eyes half close. Afteralmost two hours his number was called.Stretching up to his feet, Thad went into the next room. This one was a little larger, equally dusty anddamp. A freckled man in a pin-stripe tunic was sitting in an inflated sofa chair, a dictet unit resting on hisknee. "Mr. Ferber?" Thad asked.The freckled man glanced up. In a low voice he said, "Go on through that door on your right." AsThad went by him, the man asked, "How many more of those crumbums out there?"Thad said, "I'm the last.""Ah, great, splendid." The freckled man tossed the dictation machine to the floor. Rubbing the backof his neck, he said, "This kind of subterfuge always bores the . . . well, better get in there."Thad went through the indicated doorway into another dusty, rain-damaged room. A short, stockyman was pacing the bare floor, hands locked behind him. "How you feeling, McIntosh?""Hungry," answered Thad. "What kind of job is this going to be?""It's going to be a son of a bitch," the short, dark man said. "I'm Crosby Rich.""Oh, so?""You don't know me, but a lot of people do, off Manhattan," said Rich, still pacing. "Which is whywe had to play all these dumbbell games with you. Would you like a sandwich? I brought a half dozenwith me.""Sure." Thad watched Rich put a stubby hand into an imitation wicker hamper on the floor. "Youmean you're not interested in hiring any of these guys?""No, I'm not interested in hiring anybody. Except you, McIntosh," said Rich. "How about sealoaf onmillet bread?""Anything's O.K.""When'd you eat last?""Lunch yesterday.""Here." Rich tossed him the plyowrapped sandwich. "I've seen a lot of descents, McIntosh, but Ireally—""Talk about the job." Thad unwrapped the sandwich, took a bite. "Lectures I can always get."The stocky man had his hand back in the hamper. "Huh, that was the last one. Did I down fivesandwiches while I was waiting for you? Huh, going to have to watch that," he said. "I'm with theOpposition Party, McIntosh, working as a sort of troubleshooter."Thad nodded, went on eating."We believe neither the Republican-Democrat Party nor the Democrat-Republican Party can domuch for the country. The RDs, since they've come into power, don't seem to be able to avoid a warwith the South American Organization of States. We're headed right for it," Rich said. "You were aregistered OP member.""Back then," said Thad, chewing. "Before.""So you probably agree with our positions on things. You no doubt share the goals which we—""Is this leading up to what you want to pay me two hundred dollars for?"Rich sighed through nose and mouth. "Isn't your curiosity aroused at all, McIntosh? We go throughall this dumbbell foolery in order to contact you quietly and covertly. Don't you wonder why?""Not particularly," Thad said, finishing the last bite of the sandwich. "You said you didn't have anymore to eat? Tell you, Rich, after you've lived on Manhattan for a while you learn to exist in very smallsegments of time. To be curious much you have to think of your life as extending some way in alldirections.""I still can't understand why you gave it all up," said Rich. "You were in a—""Got tired of it." Thad put his hands in his jacket pockets, leaned against the dust-smeared wall withone elbow. "What do you have in mind, Rich? You hoping to rehabilitate me?""Yes," admitted Rich."Put me back on my feet, exactly where I was before?"The OP troubleshooter shook his dark head. "Not at all. I don't really give a rat's ass about that,McIntosh. Oh, I'm curious, but I didn't come here to do you a good turn. I'm here to see if you can doone for me. In order to do that you're going to have to stop being a deadbeat for a while.""Only a while? Not permanently?""Once you do my job you can come back here and roll in any gutter you please.""And it pays two hundred dollars.""No, it pays fifty thousand dollars," said Rich. "To start. And if you live through it you'll get anotherfive hundred thousand, at least."Thad straightened, rubbed both hands through his tangled hair. "A half million? That's not bad," hesaid. "But it sounds like this isn't going to take only the few hours your street man promised.""It may take the rest of your life.""You're implying the rest of my life may not be very long if I go to work for you?""Yes, there's that possibility. The plan we have in mind may not succeed."Scratching his stubbled chin, Thad asked, "O.K., what is it you want me to do?""Basically," replied the stocky Rich, "you have to find out the nature of something called theHellhound Project.""And just how do I do that?" asked Thad."By being somebody else," Rich told him.IIIThe olive-green air cruiser flew clear of the rain and into bright afternoon sunlight. In the control seatRich said, "I'm glad you agreed, McIntosh. It saves me from hunting down the other seven possibilities.You're the only one in the East. One fellow's out in what's left of Flint, Michigan, but we suspect theplague may have left him something of a dumbbell. The others are scattered all over the map.""I haven't accepted the job." Thad was slouched in the passenger seat drinking a cup of syncaf. Thisone was hot. "I agreed to come over to Westchester with you to discuss the thing further. Long as you'regoing to pay me five hundred dollars merely for that, I'm agreeable.""Look down on your left. We're flying over your old home . . . no, too late. Missed it."Thad hadn't turned his head. "How come your cruiser says `Olexo & Balungi, Para-Attorneys atLaw' on the side and not 'Opposition Party'?""Because if anybody found out what we're up to they'd probably kill me before I can do anything.""Oh." Thad drank more of his imitation beverage. "Would they include me?""You especially.""This Hellhound Project is so important?""Apparently," replied Rich. "We've lost five OP people this year. So far all we know is the name ofthe operation and the fact that it's a new weapon of some sort being developed by one of the branches ofWalbrook Enterprises.""Took you five men to find out only that," said Thad. "And me, all alone, I'm going to uncover thewhole story and come out alive."There were new lines on Rich's low dark forehead. "I don't guarantee you'll come out alive," he said."Though if you ask me you're not alive now, McIntosh. Huh, I've read up on you. An IQ of 185, a brainpotential score of . . . O.K., I promised no lectures." One stubby-fingered hand reached out to punch alanding pattern. "A fellow with your abilities, though, I still don't see why you—""I got tired." Thad slouched further into his seat. "In fact, I have a feeling I may get tired of your jobany minute now."The olive-green cruiser drifted down through the clear sunshine, leveled and went skimming over thetops of decorative all-weather imitation pines. "Westchester Country Club Number 26," said Rich as thecruiser circled over the pink-paved landing area."They'll never let me in.""The place is temporarily shut. OP is using it as a briefing depot, until the government catches on.Then we move again."The cruiser bounced slightly twice, grew silent. The seat released Thad. Rising up, he asked, "Whatabout food? Is there anybody around to fix lunch?"Rich jumped free of the cruiser. "The servomechs are all shipshape," he said."What's today, Tuesday?""I think so, why?""Tuesday is Mexican-American style food. Each day is different, they're set that way. Do youlike—""My tastes have become catholic in the last couple of years."Two young men casually holding stunguns nodded at Rich from inside the main dome of the countryclub.
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