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 Digitized by the Internet Archive
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https://archive.org/details/cabal0000dunn_d8c9
 THE CABAL
The most dangerous supercriminals in the
Universe

VANDAL (Alien) Expert audio tracker, speaks 62

languages; wanted for usual crimes: conspiracy, mur-
der, robbery of lunar shuttle...

PINBALL Olympic wrestler and brilliant tactician

with a taste for nuns. 8 known wives, 64 offspring.
Wanted for usual crimes plus matrimonial offenses.

ROATAX (Female) Interolympics champion and

former legal adviser to INFED. Abnormal sexual ca-
pacity with nympho-hypernormia. Wanted for rape
and suspected cannibalism, plus usual crimes. Exe-
- cutioner to CABAL.

FACTION Weight-lifter and intero-wing space

Master. Wanted for usual crimes plus in-space “time
deck” observance. | daughter, Holly.

WEEKOLD Interolympic athlete, political subver-

sive. Wanted for usual crimes, plus profligacy.
THEPHILIPCABAL
DUNN

ES
_BERKLEY BOOKS, NEW YORK
 This Berkley book contains the complete
text of the original edition.
It has been completely reset in a type face
designed for easy reading, and was printed
from new film.

THE CABAL

A Berkley Book / published by arrangement with

Transworld Publishers Ltd.

PRINTING HISTORY
Corgi edition published 1978
Berkley edition / June 1981

All rights reserved.

Copyright © 1978 by Philip Dunn.
This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part,
by mimeograph or any other means, without permission.
For information address: Transworld Publishers Ltd.,
Century House, 61-63 Uxbridge Road
Ealing, London W5 5SA.

ISBN: 0-425-04845-4

A BERKLEY BOOK® TM 757,375

Berkley Books are published by Berkley Publishing Corporation,
200 Madison Avenue, New York, New York 10016.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
THE CABAL
 CHAPTER ONE

The Clock Man

Inside there was no sense or order. The room looked like a

paperchase concentrate. A plethora of piles stacked every wall
and the shelves sagged. Vandal knew what the owner would
say. He would say, “Oh don’t worry, I know where everything
is. I know the place you can find that or this, everything is
_heatly out of control.”
He didn’t though, because Vandal couldn’t find him. He
had to be somewhere, underneath one of the vast wobbling
towers of paperwork and dust.
The room measured eight meters square and the ceiling
fought for its stature against the stacks. Greyness encompassed
everything; misty, dusty, dark and dreary, with no color, only
various and aging shades of grey giving an airless tone of
claustrophobia. Maybe the guy had finally given up and fled.
“Poof, I can’t stand it any more, get me the hell outa here for
chrissakes.”
In any event he was too well camouflaged to show his |
colors.
“Yes sir, what can I do for you?” Unimagined words this
time, from a voice that creaked like the swaying bundles.
1
| tong Philip Dunn
“Eh?” Vandal chirped, out of context.
“Over here, can I help?” Over here? Over where?
“If I could see you chameleon, if I could see you. Is your
face my color or like the rest of this place?”
“My face, sir, blends. So would yours had you this habitual
habitat.”
And Vandal at last saw a movement, a small twitch at one
corner, remote from his view. The animal was daring to show.
“Ah, is that the worthy Clock Man?”
“It could be, it could be, should you wish him no harm,
Site
“TI wish no such thing.” Vandal approached and the animal
receded into a corner that gave where it could not.
“I bear you no malice, Clock Man, don’t be afraid. I think
we have something in common.”
“Common? I have nothing in common, sir, I am unique.”
“Deaf too.”
“No sir, not deaf, just eccentric, after all, I must make the
most of my present condition, soon there will be others of my
kind and then. . .” There was the sound of shrugging shoulders,
a raising of reluctant dust. “Advance, sir, let me look on you,
let me see if what you say is true...”
Vandal obeyed.
There was silence. The dust floated.
“Hm,” said the Clock Man, observing the meat like a
butcher at a cattle-market. “Hm.”
“Shall we sing together?” Vandal suggested.
“There is a certain recognizable value, though I would con-
tend that we are no more in common than all the races of the
universe.”
“Ah, a philosopher.”
“What do you wish of the Clock Man?” And he moved from
his hidden corner to stand before Vandal, arriving before he
should.
“We would consult with you.”
“We? We? Whom do you mix with?”
“The Cabal.”
So creaky a creature should not have been able to move so
fast. He had been there, before Vandal, small and crooked,
old as the oldest hills and cracking, fraying at the edges and
 THE CABAL 3

then he was gone, whoosh, back to another corner, unseen.

Vandal swore that with a TCG he would have burned the entire
content of the room and still missed the little merging fellow.
“We are not seeking to hurt you, Clock Man, we are here
to ask your help and to give you ours.” Silence. “You do not
trust easily. I am weaponless, unarmed, defenceless. I give
you my word.”
“You will need to give me much more than that, Vandal.”
The voice this time came from no single part of the room
but scattered like a polyphonic sound system, tripping across
the cobwebs.
“That’s only the starter, friend, there will be more to your
advantage, plenty more, but I cannot adjust my words to your
wavering replies, you must take a stand as I do.”
“Never take a stand, always float and you’ll survive, Van-
dal.”
“How come you know my name?”
“You are one of the Cabal and you profess a similar dif-
ference to those around us, at your own words. . . there is only
one such in the Cabal, Vandal.”
“You know your onions, Clock Man.”
Silence.
“O.K., just wait there.” The Clock Man vanished for a sort
of second and returned on one of his tricks. “O.K., you’ll do.”
He looked better—after a second’s departure, he had evidently
investigated Vandal more thoroughly—to his satisfaction,
somehow.
Cee

“Where?”
“Here.” A stool emerged, Vandal squatted.
JAN

“So.” Like Chinese wrestlers they tempted one another.

A shaft of wistful sunlight made entry through a gap in the
curtain behind Vandal and the Clock Man waved his hand. |
The hopeful light was banished from the secret room.
“T have come with a proposition that might tempt you, Clock
Man.”
“You have come with a proposition which cannot succeed
‘without me.”
Round one to the Clock Man.
4 Philip Dunn

Vandal sighed.
“You're going to be difficult aren’t you?”
before.
Vandal watched the changing wrinkles on the face
differe nt size, one wider than the other,
him, the eyes were a
pen, just unmatc hed. The eyebro ws were thin, as
not missha
thick- lipped —an enigma tic
if plucked and the mouth broad and
heavy
face on an enigmatic soul, the whole shrouded in a thick,
cloak.
“I am unique on this planet, Vandal, I have something you
need. Why should I make your life easy—mine never was. . . You
He
are the Cabal, you are strong, I am weak, kitten-like.”
spoke with a suitable purr.
“My heart bleeds.”
“Had you one.”
Round 2. : =
“Very well, if you need to take me for a ride, Clock Man, |
I will submit, we need you, I need you, you will profit for
you have skills and knowledge that will profit the Cabal, with-
out which...”
“Your hearts will bleed.”
“My very words...” Pause. “Come closer, Clock Man,
give me your ear, I would pour soft words of pure pleasure
into that shell-like orifice.”
“You have it, Vandal... I am your servant.” And they nod-
ded, firm companions, arm in arm—the match concluded, the
real business in hand.
Vandal’s small, skinny muscular body was bent, one elbow
on his knee, his face close to the Clock Man’s willing ear, his
shifting devious eyes flashed from one comer to the other as
he related the plan.
A fellow of considerable wit was Vandal. In a fight, a
modest fellow, never one to stand and take a punch, but step
too close to that wiry frame and his switch blade would be
your intimate. The conversation between the two members of
this new-formed association lasted 30 minutes and Vandal
stepped from the shop into the present once more.
As he walked away, across the narrow lane on London’s
East side wharf, he turned to look back at the low door through
which he had come. He chuckled “That’s my boy,” as he
observed that the door, indeed the whole shop, had vanished.
or. Sear
=
 >

THE CABAL 5

INTEROPOL TCID CRIMINO-RECORDS.:

Cross ref: 279/AW/B6

PEDER AGER. Born 2387—death unknown, disappeared July

4th 2420. Male. Known to Cabal members as “Vandal”. Un-
known base origin. 1.8 metres. 61 kilos. Olive complexion,
small boned, thin build. Little comprehensive record of history.
First IDO impacted 2409 though birth date given 2387. Age
compute-appearance rated 2396. No record of early education,
no hospitalization, no parental trace.
Expert audio tracker. Said to speak 62 fluent languages.
Wanted by Interopol officials in connection with:
tax fraud, conspiracy, murder 1, robbery of lunar shuttle rocket
Psycho reports: Nil.
Medico reports: Direct contact nil. Disto-analysis indicates
deformed internal organ structure—erratic pulse readings.
Blood type: Uncategorized.
TCID readings: Nil.
E.N.A./O. .
 CHAPTER TWO

Hell and Other Nunneries

A huge shadow passed down the length of the high wall and
split across the iron gates. The body before it tip-toed. “Pinball”
was on a personal errand and his shadow besmirched the walls
of a nunnery. He had a penchant for nuns and, strangely, nuns
liked Pinball, though you would not extract a confession from
one as she kicked, vainly, either side of Pinball’s broad body.
His head was bald, shaven and brown. His shoulders were
always naked, he wore skin-tight sweat shirts, armless, and
the sheened muscle of his vast torso, huge shoulders and tree-
trunk neck were a forbidding thrilling sight to the nuns of
Rome’s Nexus Center. And not only to the nuns, for Pinball
had a very big penchant; too big for his own good. Witha
single grasshopped leap he scaled the 3 meters of wall and
dropped without a murmur to the hallowed sanctuary—‘titil-_
lation parlor” was Pinball’s name for it.
A door opened and thin, silvery light slid reluctantly from
the inner purity to show the way to this dissident visitor.
6
 THE CABAL 7
The door opened full as Pinball’s huge frame stepped into
the glow. He stood, fists clenched on his hips, legs astride,
the bulges of power scattered liberally over his body, eliciting .
a hushed inrush of breath from the craning necks at the door.
Pinball smiled, this was what he liked, the feeling of unwilling
desire in the faces of his tiny victims. He remained for a
moment, listening to the chattering voices, whispering. Three
strides took him inside the cohorts of Godliness to teach yet
again the practice of his maker’s words to the teachers of his
theory.
“Pinball. You gave us no warning.” The youth of Sister
Helene was touching, to be touched, her soft pallid skin a small
fluttering, flushed mask in the blankness of her habit.
“What warning do you need, sisters, you cannot all be
cursed at one time.”
Silent pattering of holy lips.
“Wait,” spoke another sister. “I must make sure of the
Mother Superior.”
“Never fear, little sister, the Mother Superior has her in-
ferior needs also.
“Pinball!” Soft remonstrance. “You haven’t really?”
“Do you know, your Mother Superior has the biggest nipples
fever su.<.”
“No...” spoke the tender nun. “Deeds are bad enough, but
words can be heard...” :
“Yes, I recall your silent fuck, my sweet...” What must
have been their talk when he was not there? What must have
been their thoughts?
Three nuns accompanied him to the cool chamber, reserved
for his visits, and each, with the maximum decorum, removed
her clothing. It took them only moments, for each wore but
one vestment. Like small bathing starlings they shivered from
the heavy cloth and stood naked before the strong man of the
Cabal.
For his part, Pinball folded each garment with fastidious
care. Once naked, his hairless body gleamed in the swords of
light that started from the tall windows about the chamber and
he took up the Pinball stance, slightly turned to one side, the
one withered right arm swung to the back of him, hidden at
least partially from view. To the nuns this was the single
8 : Philip Dunn
pro-
justification for the deeds they were to enjoy. Each could
fess her Christian charit y—for sure—h ow could they refuse
the pleasure they had to give to a disabled man in need?!
than
But, for Pinball, the disablement stretched no further
the other
that arm, withered since his youth, and he tilted upon
of Sister
hand, powerful and firm, thrusting into the tenderness
Helene without conscience.
Four hours and eight nuns following, Pinball slipped
through the gate and nipped a kiss upon Helene’s wimple,
leaving with barely the sound of her breath. And the cool
chamber carried the memories of their-passion, rippling across
the warmed air.
Pinball turned a dim corner and before there was time to
react three huge “doffers” thrust a trap-field generator at him.
“Fuck,” he shouted and managing a kick from one massive
foot he saved himself from a term in the “Gates”.
“Get the bastard, get him,” shouted one doffer. But Pinball
employed his feet to still greater effect and moved outside the
range of the field, down an alley and across a “pedstreet”.
They didn’t catch him, not this time, but it was becoming a
bind, a guy couldn’t consume a nunnery without interruption.
“Bloody doffers,” he cursed. “Have to find-a wife.” Four
turns and into the gates of a tall Italian house.
“You’re wanted.” She spoke in a hushed whisper, her
knuckles tight white.
“Who, apart from the doffers?” Pinball turned to his sixth
wife. 3
“Who do you think, that woman’s been here again...”
“Roatax?”
“She gives me the quivers...” Pinball’s wife was tall, red-
headed, a contrast to the nuns. Her head had once been noble
but she sagged slightly now, through child-bearing for Pinball
and through desertion and general neglect, for Pinball was not
the most reliable of husbands. He did, after all, have at least
seven other wives. And how can a man be expected to watch
over the whole world?!!
“What'd she want?”
“You...in London.”
“Did she say... .?”
 THE CABAL 9

“She hissed a lot, something about Vandal finding the Clock

Man...
“I don’t know what she was...” Anthea held on to him
gripping his arm as she spoke, knowing what was to come but
dreading the continued loneliness.
“The Clock Man, good old Vandal, I knew he’d do it...”
Pinball turned to go. “Where are you going? You just arrived.”
Her face showed the fear and anger she felt.
“I’ve got to get back...”
“You bastard, at least stay the night. It’s my right. . . please,
Stefan, please... don’t desert me again, it’s my right...”
“And all the others.
“T'll see you in hell, ‘Stefan! I'll levy the doffers, get you
for emotional desertion .
Pinball hesitated.
“You wouldn’t, not your old Pinball...”
“You bet your bloody bald nuts I would, you took me on,
you gave me the kids, I’ll get the doffers out, all I have to do
is pick up the phone and touch out TCID, it’s easy, you want
me to?”
Bs OK. = I'll stay.”

INTEROPOL TCID CRIMINO-RECORDS

Cross ref: 4258/AB/P9

STEFAN COCA. Born 2390—believed died July 4th 2420

(disappeared after satellite broadcast). Known to Cabal mem-
bers as “Pinball”. East European base origin. 2.4 meters. 90
kilos. No hair—strongman. No scars, no disfigurement. Wres-
tler and martial combatant. Originally bodyguard to Aba-
Chubi—suspected murderer of same.
Graduated New York School of Planning and Tactics 2407.
Brilliant tactician. Cabal’s “Fastidio”.
Eight known wives, 64 offspring.
Wanted by Interopol officials in connection with:
Murder 1, fraud, polygamic desertion, exogomy, gambling
fraud.
Psycho reports: Slight xenophobia, hyper-meticulosis.
10 Philip Dunn.

Medico reports: Complete absence of body hair. Withered right

arm.
Blood type: O.
TCID readings:
IDO—227/F6
EMO—3/Com%
SX—S55/R
Phy—998/g1.
 CHAPTER THREE

The Executioner

The spider, they say, feeds on its mate, devouring, as a cul-

mination of the sexual act, the provider of the seed. A morbid
adjustment of the balance of dominance to its rightful level.
On a darkened hillside near Geneva, set back from the
freeways, stood a tall old house, with high turrets and whistling
eyrie. One of the oldest dwellings in the European Common-
weaith, dated at 1750 and carefully preserved throughout.
Inside dwelt one woman, alone. Her name was Enima Rota, .
known to the Cabal as “Roatax”’. Her function within the crim-
inal organization of the Cabal was executioner and she took
her job very seriously. But here, in her hidden and obscure
retreat, she lived a solitary and peaceful life, undisturbed by
the fast-moving Trans-European traffic and little known by her
few neighbors.
Geneva was a small town, its population reduced in the past
300 years to no more than 15,000 and mostly dominated by
a computer-parts industry. No one was much concerned with
Roatax and she kept away from the bright lights of the town
center, peopled by technicians and their families. That night
_ the air was still and heavy in the high hillside forest and the
11
 12 Philip Dunn

stars were unobscured by cloud. The balmy warmth lay still

throughout the sylvan surroundings about her house and at
21.30 hours darkness began to fall, the artificial spring twilight
drifting through open windows on to empty grates. Such eve-
nings dispel fear and bring security, and so Roatax walked a
few meters from her house, watching through the dying light
the myriad shadows left across the trees, feeling the stillness,
but in herself strangely restless, as though she expected some-
one.
Upon a broad frame she carried a short, but firm body that
with its muscular waist and powerful hips, seemed strangely
out of place. The broad shoulders were sheathed in black, shiny
material perched sloping over large, heavy breasts which
looked a little out of place on the powerful chest. Yet she
exuded a dark, rivetting sexuality. Her body was short, almost
rotund, perched on the lanky limbs; slightly top-heavy with a
muscular waist and broad powerful hips. And yet, almost un-
willingly, she carried a power that sent shivers of uncertain
desire into those who watched her move. She had, invariably,
any man she wanted, and that night her restlessness derived
from an impure physical hunger for the body of a mate. And
Roatax was not forced to deny her needs, for long. For, just
a little way off and heading in the direction of the house, was
a taut, lean young man of virile disposition. His name is ir-
relevant for he was only as one of a long list to suffer at the
eager hands of Roatax. His thoughts strayed either towards
some forthcoming and idyllic assignation which, now that he
had chosen this route, would never be fulfilled; or with his
next carefully chosen meal—a meal he would never consume.
There are those who would mourn his passing, but none
would witness the pleasure and sublime ecstacy with which the
hood of death was going to enshroud him. None, save Roatax,
himself and those that read on.
Like a malevolent eagle, Roatax’s head twisted half round
at the sound of a snapping twig. Her body adopted a slight ~
crouch and her hands formed themselves into claws, as the
young man approached. He saw the house, half-hidden in the
dim light, and hesitated an instant. In that precarious moment
_ Of indecision he could have saved his life. He could have turned
about and took the wider route. But he did not. His attitude
 THE CABAL 13

_ on this warm night was forthright. For why should he indulge

an irrational doubt? He was a man, and men are direct and
plucky. He snapped another twig and within twenty paces stood
before Roatax.
“Good evening.” Her face was bright, cheerful and alert.
Her flashing warmth welcomed him.
“H-hello.” He continued not to heed the small still voice
‘inside him; warning. ..She is only a woman, no woman can
harm the power of youth, young is omnipotent.
“What a beautiful night.” She offered.
“Beautiful?”
“The air, the soft night, everything; so peaceful, don’t you
think?”
“Yes, yes, it is... 1was just thinking...”
“I know, a walk in these woods is good on such a night.”
“Yes.” Silence. Who should fill it? Should he step away?
“Have we . . . met before, I don’t remember . . . seeing
eYOU <=: 7”

“T have lived here some while. But I spend much time away.
Do you live in the town?”
“Near it, just on the lake, not far...I was on my way...”
“Yes. It’s good that they have preserved the lake.” Roatax
could feel the ache of her desire well up within her body as
she watched the strong-muscled thighs of the man, the lean
youthful body, barely clad.
~ “Do you know that Lord Byron used to live very close to
the lake with Shelley and Mary Shelley... you must be near
to their home. I believe it still exists.”
“Yes, it’s close to ours.” He paused. “Is that your house?”
He wished to be polite.
eV esc"
“A magnificent building, strange I have not passed it be-
fore.”
“It is well hidden. I enjoy privacy.”
“Oh well... I. . .” An opportunity to leave.
“But it is nice to meet neighbors now and again. ..I do get
lonely on occasion.”
“J...” Still hesitant.
“Would you...are you in a hurry? I would be happy to
_ share a glass of wine with you. There must be much we could -
14 Philip Dunn
talk of. You could tell-me more of this place, I’m sure. I have
not paid it enough attention. And you are young. The young
are always pleasant company.”
He felt her eyes exploring his body. Why not? He had heard
stories of mature love. She turned and he followed her. Though
he did not know it, the Universe closed about his back.
Inside, the house was cool, as though there were a threshold
at the door where the still weight of the night ended and other
conditions prevailed within. He felt the twinge once again, the
doubtful voice all the while prodding him away. But, foolish
youth, he did not heed it and trod the same steps as she.
She was not pretty, not beautiful, but enticing, disturbing.
Something about her figure and her face made him wonder if
she might reach for a whip and don leather thongs. Then he
would run for sure. But she did not. Rather, she began to
remove her clothes. He watched, transfixed, as each garment
was dropped, until she stood draped only in a silken loincloth.
Her shoulders were broad, her breasts huge, with nipples
so dark and big that they covered almost the whole breast with
the web of each auriol. They stood firm and strong, her dark-
walled belly coated in the finest hairs that thickened down to
spread wide over the top of the loin-cloth. He had never seen
such a body. It was primitive, yet sophisticated and mature all
at once. She lifted her strong hands to adjust the head-band
she wore and the thick black curls of hair under each arm made
her almost manly. It was this mixture of feminine beauty and
male power which made Roatax so irresistible, both to men
and women. She removed the black loin-cloth from her hips
with a flick and he looked on at the slowly gyrating forest of
darkness. He wanted her, but feared her. He wanted to turn
and run, yet he knew that if he did the next months would be
spent in dreadful regret. And the young cannot tolerate regret.
She moved close to him and he smelled the sweet fresh
sweat. She unbuttoned his clothing, quickly stripping him na-
ked. She coiled her arms about his neck, and moved her hips
astride his excited cock, swallowing him up, gobbling at him
like a hungry wolf until he succumbed completely, drowned
under her feverish attack.
She took him, not like a woman, and the pleasure of her
taking was like nothing any woman had shown him before.
 THE CABAL : 15
~ She pushed him and thrust upon him until his body and seed
were spent and then she began again, drawing him skilfully
back to excitement. Again and again he was carried by her
powerful sexuality until all he could do was sleep.

He awoke, fitfully...not knowing how long he had slept.

Raising himself upon one arm he saw her kneeling on the side
of the bed, over his body, looking down into his face.
“Where. ..?”” was all he asked. Her great powerful arms
_ were about his shoulder. He gasped, thinking vaguely that this
was some deviation and that he was to pay with bruises for his
pleasure. Then the ghastly truth crashed in upon him with the
pain. He lifted still further to defend himself but it was far too
late. The moment for escape was long past. She twisted and
wrenched his whole arm and ripped it from the joint, tearing
the ligaments and flesh clean from his shoulder, like a starving
urchin disembodying a well-cooked fowl.
A million horrified thoughts smashed across his brain. The
gigantic strength required to do such a thing was impossible,
in a man, let alone a woman. Why should anyone wish to
smash a body in such a dreadful fashion. The pain, the appalling
shock thrust a full-throated scream from his chest. A growling,
’ gasping cry was forced out of him involuntarily as he looked
in total disbelief at the shattered bone that protruded from his
shoulder. But before he could utter a further cry, she had
brought both fists down upon his solar plexus, catapulting the
last breath from his lungs. He felt the thick vomit burst from
his mouth with the pressured air and his popping eyes saw their
last image; Roatax, her face flushed with passion and the mania
of the kill. Clutching his genitals in her steel fingers, she ripped
them from their tender roots. He died that night and little of
his body was ever found, for little of it was left.

INTEROPOL TCID CRIMINO-RECORDS

Cross ref: 326/BT/A9

ENIMA ROTA. Born 2386—vanished 2420. Female. Known

to Cabal members as “Roatax”. East European base origin. 1.7
meters. 58 kilos. Black-haired, last physical statistic records
16 Philip Dunn

96:60:90. Interolympics champion, Tai Chi Chuan Defeated

Yum-Chu at 2403 Games.
Legal adviser to INFED 2408 2410.
Wanted by Interopol officials in connection with:
Tax fraud, conspiracy, rape, murder | (reputed to have com-
mitted cannibalism, though unproven)
Psycho reports: Abnormal sexual capacity. AEG a hyper-
normia.
Medico reports: Cardio duplication.
Blood type: O.
TCID readings:
IDO—239/UFM,
EMO—1/HJG*
SX—21/m
Phy—888/Perf.
 CHAPTER FOUR

Childwise

“I’ve come to see Holly.”

“Name?”
“Whinter,- Abel Whinter.”
“Oh, you want Holly Whinter, yes, of course, Mr. Whinter,
come this way please.”
_He was led along a soft-carpeted, smooth-walled corridor
with large colorful pictures hung in batches at intervals, each
batch opposite a door. Behind each door he could hear the
sound of children’s voices.
_ Abel Whinter’s great weakness was children and his great
strength Holly, his own child.
His broad, short bulk, barely edged between the door-posts
on their left turn from the corridor. The eight or nine children
in the room all turned to look, wide-eyed, at this stubby giant. ~
One pair of eyes looked in particular. They were green and
the head was covered in thick auburn hair. Freckles splattered
her face and the tiny three-year-old girl scampered across the
room and into her father’s arms. Holly Whinter saw her father
- once a week with luck and her mother never. °
“The Childlovers Association” home was plush in the least
17
18 Philip Dunn
and no child ever left deprived of love. But it hung on Abel’s
mind, it weighed on his broad shoulders that the love of his
life was cared for by others. -
“Come and see what I’ve made, Daddy, come and see,
come and see!” :
An hour later the surrogate told him his car phone was
buzzing.
He left the home after a brief talk with Vandal on the phone.
The sun engulfed the great house where the children lived and
the surrounding meadows and paddocks were a happy home,
but Holly wouldn’t stop crying.

INTEROPOL TCID CRIMINO-RECORDS

Cross ref: 424/AW/J6

ABEL WHINTER. Born 2380—Vanished, believed dead, July

4th 2420. Male. Founder-member of Cabal. Known to Cabal
members as “Faction”. USAP origin. 1.9 meters. 83 kilos.
Dark complexion, red-haired. Solid muscular build. Weight-
lifting champion—European Commonwealth Games 2400/1/2
... Known to wrestling world as “The Quiet Monster”.
Intero-wing space Master ISF Milanese TPW6. Undertook first
successful exobiological expedition of Andromead “Out-
skirts” 2412. 1 recorded spouse. 1 daughter—Holly.
Wanted by Interopol officials in connection with:
In-space “time deck” observance, tax evasion, hypnofraud,
conspiracy.
Psycho reports: Kinaesthetic memory.
Medico reports: Weak left deltoid muscle, bullet'scar, left calf.
Blood type: Rhesus neg.
TCID readings:
IDO—446/THF,
EMO—8/JK?
SX—109/P
Phy—784/Hyp.
 CHAPTER FIVE

Blind Alley

The blind was flapping and with each flap another piece of
cigar ash blew out of the tray and on to the floor.
But at 06.00 hours who cares about ash on the floor?
“Weekold’s” apartment overlooked London’s Soho Square
on the lowest levels, only one floor off the ground. It was
April and the climate satellite was controlling the hot cycle of
eight days. Somehow, not uncommonly, the satellite had
shoved the temperature up a little too high for this time of
year. There would be complaints over the next day or so and
some technician or other would be sent up into the atmosphere
to adjust the heat down a peg or two. But for the time being
it was blistering and sweaty, and six o’clock in the morning.
Here was a combination, in this seedy apartment, for bird-cage
mouths, yellow-stained pillow cases and for contemplating
suicide... which Weekold did, on occasion.
This morning he expected to hear from Vandal—but then
he had expected that yesterday morning. He had not slept much.
His naked body lay in its own damp sweat on the bed-sheet.
His hair was wet and his skin cold, the cold of half sleep. And
the blind flapped, tattered and wrenched from it electric hous-
ing. Many was the time he had sworn to have it mended, but
19
 20 Philip Dunn
still he used the piece of thin string to pull it up, instead of the
automatic control, broken and cracked. So, it flapped.
Weekold rolled off the bed and staggered to the window.
With a crash from his fist the blind was swept aside, only to
fall back again, time enough fora breath of still warm air. He
pulled at the string and raised the blind, opposite and on all
facias were other blinds, some half-drawn, some broken, like
his. What a dump.
The streets were quite empty, what he could see of them,
and they would remain that way for several hours yet. The sky
was Clear in this climate cycle and the sweat of over-heat stuck
his fingers to his neck. The Cabal plan had to work, Vandal
had to have done his part. They must all do their part, and then
he, Weekold, could get the hell out of this dingy hole in the
middle of nowhere. He would kill himself for sure if the plan
did not work, yet another dead-end.
It would not be that way, not this time.
He moved back to the bed and sat down—scratching one
long-fingered hand across his damp scalp and the other round
his balls. ,
“What a fucking dump,” he cursed. It was a dump, Week-
old’s place. Somehow he had never quite organized his life
properly—tike the other Cabal members. They’d all made
chunks of cash from one crime or another. Only Weekold, the
misfit of the Cabal; had gambled it, lost it, drunk it, given it
away—all the while waiting and planning the real “big deal”
that would accommodate his profligate ways and leave enough
over for getting free of Blind Alley.
He lay back, going over the plan once more. There were
always small loopholes to plug and loose strings to tie off and
each time he thought of one he would make a note to mention
it to Pinball. Pinball, the tactician, when he could be dragged
from his haunts and his hells.
“Damn it all to hell,” he swore again, feeling himself in-
~ adequate beside the others of the group. They all had their
special functions, they were skilled in some way or another. . . he
was just an agitated nervous wreck, the dissatisfied one of the
Cabal, an ambitious failure. But in that, too, he had his func-
tion, his merits. He snored, grunted and farted, and the morning
grew.
“
* * *
 THE CABAL 21
INTEROPOL TCID CRIMINO-RECORDS
Cross ref: 212/BT/F9_ -

PETER KIERNEY. Born 2382—Vanished 2420. Male. Foun-

der-member of Cabal. Known to Cabal members as “Wee-
kold”. European base origin. 2.1 meters. 75 kilos. Sandy-
haired, wiry build. Left ear missing. Athlete (S00 meters dash
2398 Interolympics).
Wanted by Interopol officials in connection with:
Tax fraud, conspiracy, embezzlement, robbery with violence,
inciting groups to public disorder. Involved in various sub-
versive political groups.
Unmarried. Heterosexual.
Medico reports: Blue-yellow blindness, optic tract deficiency
in left eye, possibly resulting in blind spot.
Blood type: A.
TCID readings:
IDO—437/BW6
EMO—2/4P%
SX—46/TLW
PHY—544/Ga.
 CHAPTER SIX

The Giant’s Robe

Monday, April 3rd 2420, Piccadilly, London. The weather was

yellow and brown, the heat, even in the early morning, up to
80 degrees. The roads still glistened from the washing they
had received at 5 a.m.; the over-staffed road-cleaning crew
had gone home to sleep away an unburdensome day. This was
the new climate cycle and it had started badly. The last had |
been wet, to be followed by a cooler control, but along the
line someone had touched the wrong controls and the satellite
was raising the temperature too high. Everyone grumbled and
phoned up the meteorological offices, cursing them hourly. By
the next day, things would be adjusted.
At 7 a.m. there was no one around, and neither would there
be at 8 or, indeed, 9.. Maybe, soon after 9:30, a few stragglers
would appear from the subway stations. They would wander
about the streets looking for something to occupy them, or they
might, a few lucky ones, head purposefully towards an office
or a factory to make a half-day’s work; never a full day. There
weren’t any full days anymore.
London was like an olympic city erected in a desert; vehicles
were parked and unused on the upper levels that jutted out
Py et ;
 ; THE CABAL 23

from the side of massive high-rise buildings, twisting impos-

sibly away to form other levels where escalators and cantele-
vators waited for travellers to be carried down, up, round, or
sideways—empty. Bridges spanned from naked surface to na-
_ked surface; arrows pointed, letters directed, computered banks
ticked, and at this time, all to no avail. The spring sky was
clear blue above the city, with a brightness that permeated
slowly down into the lower depths. The windows of the build-
ings were scrupulously clean and shining, fresh washed and
brushed. from yesterday. They would be cleaned again today
and tomorrow, for window-cleaners love to clean windows and
everyone seems to understand. The shops would be manned,
where manning was needed, or womanned where womanning
was preferred. The men and women would stand in the shops
and on the corners, mostly idle, and hand over reluctantly to
other men and women at midday and they too would wander
off to their apartments, mostly to sleep, maybe just to eat, or
pace a floor, sleep some more and wait for the next half-day
of work tomorrow. Down on ground level, the lights were all
off and the people inside. A security man might be standing
at the entrance to a subway, waiting as much as anyone else
-for his job to begin; putting in an extra unpaid hour or two.
It was no less boring than being at home and his wives were
a weight-on his time. He scuffed his foot against a fire hydrant
cover set into the ground and looked down to the figures im-
printed in round raised metal on the top surface. “1964”. The
one sound set off another, a gentle “swiff”, the familiar shifting
of air around the base of a ground car approaching.
The car, long and voluptuous, with broad vulgar headlights,
colorful patterns across the roof and a single red star on the
bonnet, shifted through the still dank air and parted currents ©
and eddies in the narrow alleyways of the lower levels as it
settled gently to the ground and stopped. The security man’s
eyes narrowed. There was no real reason for suspicion, the
occasional character could be found about the streets at this
time. But he was a security man and security men are trained
to be suspicious.
He watched as the side door opened and a small, crouched,
skinny man slid from the seat, stepping on to the pavement at
the side of the road.
 24 Philip Dunn

It was about the only time of day when a car could park in ~
the streets without being picked up by the wardens and dumped ~
expensively into a pound. The man plunged his fists into pock-
ets either side of his loose-fitting trousers and walked, hunch-
shouldered, away from the car, which silently completed its
security arrangements, shut tight against intrusion. The security
man, now slightly hidden inside a “dive” club entrance, kept
watch until the early riser was out of sight.
Vandal turned a corner into one of the sleazy districts around
Piccadilly, way below the top branches of the “city tree”. To
either side of his walk were dingy peep halls and strip joints,
now unadorned by the soliciting lights and opportunity men
and women. Most of them were barred, with the dead neon~
blandishments exhorting nothing. The walls were covered in
graffiti and dirt, and a tramp lay asleep and sweating on the
edge of the road. Vandal walked on by without glancing to
either side, his feet making no sound.
Under an overhead walkway, balustraded in thin metal,
crossing from one bar to another, he stopped. From a pocket
he pulled a fist and slid its contents from palm to finger-tips.
Two steps to his right and the key was thrust into a lock,
twisted once twice and returned to the pocket. The door moved
back and Vandal entered, leaving the sleeping street behind
him.
The old tramp by the side of the road lifted his tired body,
evidently already awake, stood and shuffled off towards the
ground car. He moved around it furtively, watched all the while
by the security man. As he passed he pressed a hand against
the side, as though to check his balance and moved away into
the labyrinth of streets. The security man relaxed and awaited
the morning.
Vandal climbed a single flight of stairs and knocked on a.
door to one of blind alley’s apartments.
“Who is it?”
“Vandal.”
“Just a minute.” The voice was croaky and half asleep, but
the door opened quickly. Vandal entered.
“You're early.” Weekold gestured to a chair, then a bottle.
“Always.” Vandal declined the bottle and took the edge of
the chair.
“Just a moment, let me wake up, I don’t. get much sleep
 THE CABAL 25

in this confounded heat. I wish to God they’d get those fucking

satellites working properly.”
“You should do a little exercise; stretches the joints, makes
you feel like sleep.”
“Hm.” Weekold staggered across to the hand-basin in the
comer and pushed the mildewed button that never worked. He
punched it with the palm of his hand and eventually water
sprayed out in an uneven atomised mist. He put his face to the
spray, lathered his hands from the soap spout and coated wet
jowls with the mixture. He let the water trickle down his chest
and rubbed it over with his soapy hands. The water stopped
and he turned on the cool air dryer—allowing its blast to fan
his face.
“Don’t you ever suffer, Vandal, don’t you ever feel un- ~
comfortable, or tired, or bored or something like that?”
Vandal yawned.
“Hm.” Weekold switched off the dryer and poured himself
a drink.
_ Vandal watched him swig the contents of the dirty glass in
one gulp and pour a second.
“Where are the others?”
“Coming.”
Weekold paced, as always uncomfortable when alone with
Vandal. There was little point in beginning a conversation to
be repeated when the others arrived. So the two remained
silent; Vandal at ease, Weekold distinctly not. He walked to
the window and opened the blind, peered out at the complex
street and watched a tramp shuffle past the front door.
“Did anyone see you come?” he asked.
“Yes, two people. A security guard and a tramp.”
“That guard is always there, near the ‘Hell’ dive was he?”
“Yes.” Silence. “And the tramp?” Vandal asked, casually.
“He just passed the door, or his mate,” Weekold replied.
“Regular?”
“No, not too regular.”
Vandal stood up.
“T’ll be back in a moment, don’t start without me.”
“That would be difficult.” Weekold looked after the slim
body as it slid through the partially opened door and into the
dark. .
Irritated by him, he nevertheless admired Vandal. He also
26 Philip Dunn

distrusted him. But then, so did most of the Cabal.

Outside, the air was no less muggy but the light had crept
with more ambition into the lower levels. Vandal slid along
the side walls of a Disco-Bingo hall and round a sharp corner
to come up behind the tramp, who shuffled on, apparently
unaware.
Vandal’s steps were silent. With remarkable sensitivity he
detected any dislocation or disturbance in the air. He knew the
spirit of place. Soon he was within a meter of the tramp and
closing. Two more steps and Vandal was apace. The tramp
sneaked into an alley and Vandal followed.
“Well?”
“Tt’s stuck to your ground car... inviso-tape, on the left
wing.”
“Good.”
The tramp went one way, Vandal the other.
- Vandal emerged from the alleyway to see another approach-
ing figure.
This was no tramp, too big; no security man, too loose; this
was Pinball. :
“Hi Vandal... I’ve often wondered what you find in those
little dark alleyways ...never could get into them myself.”
“You don’t know what you miss, Pinball. . . there’s another
universe in there.”
“Yeh?” Pinball lacked enthusiasm. “Any nuns?”
“None that you’d recognize.”
“Ladies of easy virtue?”
“Put there by you no doubt.” They entered and climbed the
stairs together to Weekold’s dingy room.
Roatax and Faction were already waiting.
“Who was he?” ‘Weekold asked Vandal.
“No one...no one of importance.” He sat.
They did not acknowledge one another; their meetings of
late had been too frequent.
“Vandal? Perhaps you might tell us of your contact.”
Weekold slumped into the old basket-chair and lit a long
cigar.
“T’ve seen the Clock Man.”
““What’s he like?” Roatax asked.
“Alien .. . and wily .. .”
Pe

THE CABAL 27

“Is he willing, that’s the important thing?” Weekold waved

his cigar about, trailing the smoke.
“I think so, though he’ll need watching. He’s not exactly
committed to our cause...but I think he maybe sees us as
’ useful to some cause of his own.”
“Which is?” Pinball leaned forward.
“I don’t know, but in any event he’s on the Carnival council
and knows the inside plans...one of which I think might
surprise you.”
They all paid close attention.
“It seems that we are to be invaded.”
“What?” Roatax looked alarmed, Pinball intrigued and
Weekold extremely agitated. Anything that got in the way of
his “plan” was a reason for agitation.
“Don’t worry, Weekold, it can do nothing but help us, the
invasion is supposed to scare people... you know? A kind of
International patriotism. That’s the theory. They launch an
invasion and everyone gets such a scare-that they start copu-
lating madly . . . and the population increases . . . a bit of
adrenalin.”
“There’s faulty logic fered in there. How much of a
secret will it stay, I wonder.” Pinball thought aloud.
“Not much of one, if he’s telling me so willingly I'll bet
he’s told a few others. It’ll be half-way round the planet before
July 4th.”
“That’s the date, eh?”
“Yes, right slap at the beginning of the Carnival... in fact,
within about five minutes of the opening. ..24,000 World
Confederation Forces. They’re up on Mars now, getting ready
to charge down the hill and fire their toy guns at us.” sp
“Should make the Generals happy anyway.
“And most everyone else too, they’re going to dress up as
a bunch of four-eyed monsters, tentacles and green legs and
all. ..a regular fancy-dress party.”
“Well, it'll make for a bit more confusion...” Weekold
looked happier.
“Tf I know the Feds it’ll be all hell and hundreds of people
knocked off..
“That’s great, they want to increase the population so what
do they do? They invade themselves and kill off hundreds in
28 Philip Dunn

the act... bloody marvelous.”

Pinball leaned back in the chair and gurgled with derision.
“Does this Clock Man know anything about policing move-
ments during the invasion?” Weekold brought the conversation
back to the point.
“Some. He liaises with Inspector Haarlem himself.”
“Oh-ho,” cried Pinball, “Old Boozy, that should be fun. . . at
least it’ll keep him out of our hair...”
“I wouldn’t bet on that, the doffers have been doubled for
this event, new drafting orders issued, not that they’ll find it
difficult to fill the jobs with 64 per cent unemployment .. .
apparently they’re queuing up for the chance to bop us on the
head.”
“T’ll bet...” Weekold was grim again.
“Anyway, he likes our plan to raid the Sperm Reserve
.novel, he called it. | wonder sometimes with these aliens,
whether they know what they’re saying...”
“You can talk...” Roatax joked.
“Anyway, the point is, he’s a useful ally and I intend to
keep in touch with him during the time before our attack on
the Reserve. He’s agreed to supply daily bulletins of all meet-
ings within the Carnival Committee ...He wants us in return
to make as much noise as possible when we do the job and
give him a cut of the goodies..
“Why does he want a lot of noise? I was planning to Be it
very quietly indeed.”
“Well, I think he just...” Vandal hesitated, realizing that
he had let something slip. “I think the idea is if we make
enough fuss we'll get more out of it...especially if the au-
thorities are intent on making life look rosy . . . they’Il not want
a big heist to get in the way.”
“Hm...” Pinball was not satisfied but kept quiet.
There was a moment’s silence in the room.
“O.K., let’s get down to the details of the actual job, shall
we?” Weekold, again, intent on their future funds, started the
serious matters on the agenda.
He went to a near-by cupboard, opened the door which was
smudged with black finger-marks and pulled out five clean
white folders. He also produced a projector which he placed
at the center of the table. The folders and the projector were
 THE CABAL t 29
in direct contrast to everything else in the room; clean, neat
and prized as items of great value. They were, after all, part
of Weekold’s plan, or rather Pinball’s plan and Weekold’s
ambition. Weekold may have been a scruffy, bad-tempered old
bastard but when it came to driving the Cabal through a plan, ~
he was unsurpassed. He would organize, initiate, cajole, bully
his fellow members through operations like an anxious sheep-
dog.
He turned the holograph projector on and a thin haze of
light spread directly above it. With great ceremony he placed
a folder before each member and positioned himself at the end
of the table. He touched a button on the remote control and
the haze of light flashed into a miniature building, the surrounds
fading out of the picture.
“This is the New York World Sperm Reserve.” He spoke
the words with the import they deserved. “This building con-
tains enough spermatozoa to people the entire solar system
eleven times over. Between the years 2348 and 2351 every
living and able male contributed six ejaculations of spunk to
his local medical center and the whole lot was frozen and
transportedto the World Reserve. -Here it is controlled under
the most delicate conditions, for the future. A level of popu-
lation has been determined and when the drop in numbers
reaches that level the reserve will be released under strict con-
trol and distributed to local health centers for statutory insem-
ination.” “Have we any idea what the level is?” Roatax asked,
not exactly relishing the idea of being inseminated, artificially
or otherwise.
“Not really, though press reports at the time of the order
for collection showed the figure to be around 100,000,000. If
you look inside your folders you will see that photo-copies of
the newsprint reports have been included.”
“What’s the population level now?”
“Around 300,000,000.”
“Christ, not far to go,” Vandal exclaimed.
“Population has dropped in the past four centuries from
3 billion to 300 million...that’s an average of 6 million
a year, the biggest relative drop taking place in the last cen-

“Why’s it happening?” Vandal asked.

30 _ Philip Dunn

Pinball answered, “The most popular theory is that me-

chanization has reduced the need for man-power and thus
slowed down the rate of adrenalin production in the body.
People don’t care to fuck any more. . . or if they do, the body’s
sperm count has dropped. We retire earlier. People can’t go
on working, even if they want to, and so they are dying
younger. The average life expectancy is now 42 whereas in the
late 21st century it was 86. That’s a big drop and the birth rate
is not keeping up with the death rate, so population reduces
_ . . fast. Where ease of living comes, man does not. . . or
at any rate not so effectively.”
Weekold touched the control on the projector again and an
image of a large chamber appeared on the haze of light above
the machine.
“This is the main freezer chamber in the Reserve. It mea-
sures three hundred meters square and contains around 60 per
cent of the sperm. You’ll see from the holograph that the banks
of containers are stacked in metallic drawers. In a moment I'll
show you the contents of one of those drawers.”
“How many guards?” Vandal asked.
“We'll come to that too... 1wanted you to see this because
it shows the size of the operation. These drawers are checked,
one by one, every day by technicians in the Reserve staff. Each
drawer contains four thousand samples, each sample is made
up of 100,000 sperm cells, frozen and stored in a small con-
tainer. Every sample is marked with a potency code, there are
no identity marks so that no one knows whose sperm it is, but
the chromosomes are recorded. That way the donees can choose
whether to have a boy or girl but they cannot tell who the
father was. However, you will also note another interesting
factor. .:” Weekold paused. “The number of sperm cells in
each donation are rarely more than 100,000. The average con-
tent of a sample of sperm in the early 21st century was 400,000.
By the date of the compulsory donations the count had dropped
by 400 per cent, a significant reduction. Thus the need for
collecting a store of the stuff. We are becoming an impotent
race... This is what frightens the authorities most—thus the
sperm reserve—a kind of start-cOck!” ‘
He paused again, lighting up another cigar. “I am telling
you all this in order to emphasize the level of importance placed
 THE CABAL 31

on the World Sperm Reserve. The authorities will, I estimate,

give anything to keep it safe and sound.”
He switched the picture on. This time it showed the inside
of a container. “Each one of these holds the sperm samples,
that’s 400 million sperms, and it also holds an explosive charge
set to go off if the container is tampered with. Evidently they
would rather kill the lot than have someone steal them.”
“Why?” Roatax asked.
~ “Because they don’t want anyone performing genetic chem-
istry on the sperm.”
“Christ!” Roatax concluded.
Weekold touched the button again and a new image ap-
peared in place of the last. “This is one of the specially assigned
doffers set to guard the Reserve. He is one of six hundred who
pace the floors, on a duty of two hours. A very short duty,
deliberately, part of the official policy to keep doffers awake
on the job. Nowhere in the world is any building so thoroughly
guarded and if you look closely at him you will see the special
facilities he has.”
“Christ, like a bloody tank,” Vandal commented.
“He has all the latest weaponry, and plenty of it. He’s a
walking battle station with a hand blaster, a scat-gun at his
belt, an auto-transceiver about his throat in direct touch with
a central terminal where reserve guards live 24 hours a day.
He carries a pair of holograph lenses which work like this
projector, giving him a 3-D image of a 36-degree radius about
his head and at the same time magnifying any image at will
to 300 per cent larger than normal.” Weekold paused for breath.
“He has an audio sensitiser than can pick up the drop of a
pin at two kilometers. His nose is fitted with an olfactory
- sensitiser. He can sniff a match struck three hundred meters
away.”
“Must be hell if anyone farts.” Pinball chortled.
“No...each instrument has an attached: computer link
which monitors the stimulus, analyses it and if it can be ac-
counted for, eradicates it from his receptor unit. He’s troubled
by extraneous influences...” As always, once in full flow,
Weekold took nothing in humor.
“I was only kidding,” Pinball added, superfluously.
Weekold opened his pure white folder. “There are, as I
32 Philip Dunn

said, six hundred guards constantly on duty. Most of these

guys are the best doffers in the force, many of them trained
fighters, and all very highly paid. And that, as we know,
counts. They don’t want to lose their cushy jobs. There have
only ever been two attempted break-ins of the Sperm Reserves.
Both were caught before they got past the front door.
“There’s no fucking about with the doffers on this one, if
we get caught that’s it... breaking into the Sperm Reserve is
a treasonable offence and ‘life’ on the Lunar penal colony or
some such practice is the obligatory.”
“Great. . .now he tells us,” Roatax grumbled.
“But . . . if we succeed, the sky’s the limit. . .”
“What about cash—we’ll need plenty to shut the hungry
mouths of our fellow crooks,” Vandal interjected.
“All part of the plan—all part of the plan—now stop fussing
and pay attention.” Weekold switched the holograph projector
on again.
“Now, the plan of action...devised by none other than
Pinball himself, our arch tactician...”
“No applause please...” Pinball joked.
“We'll keep those till after . . . if you deserve them. . .”
“If we get out alive...” Vandal mumbled. -

The meeting lasted another three hours, during which Weekold

went over every aspect of the carefully devised plan. Then they
split, each his own way, leaving individually with thirty min-
utes between departures.
Vandal was last. He walked back through the busy lower
levels of London’s Soho, paying little note to the indiscriminate
attentions of those about him. At his ground car he slid a small
dextrous hand over the “inviso-tape” on the left wing, left by
the tramp, detached it, and put it into his pocket. He drove
swiftly to his home and quietly prepared a drink of specially
concocted fruit juices that made up his delicate diet, settled
down into a deep chair and played the tape message over
headphones. Once completed he took the tape disc off the
machine and placed it under his hand blaster, turned the dial
to “stun” and disintegrated it. The message was not for any-
one’s ears but his, not even for his fellow Cabal members,
perhaps them least of all.
 THE CABAL 33
He drank the last drops of the soft syrupy juice and placed
the container in the disposal rack where it shrivelled and dis-
appeared down the garbage chute. He opened the front door
and sniffed the air outside. The night was still warm, the
climate satellites still unadjusted. There was a faint odor of
grass and vegetation from the nearby culture farm and the moon
was visible above the buildings opposite. He thought of his
dual position between the Cabal and those he had chosen to
serve. It would not be the first time that Vandal had played
a double bill. But it might be the last.
He closed the door and retired to his study to think over the
instructionsso explicitly provided by the Clock Man. July 4th
seemed an awfully long way away.

Saui)
 CHAPTER SEVEN

The Pieman’s Wares

“There she is.” Pinball stood beside Vandal, dwarfing him, as

they looked up at the vast building on the east side of Times
Square, New York City. “Just imagine... all those sperma-
tozoa.”
“It beats me why the hell they keep it there...why don’t
they pass it around now...do more good inside than out.”
Vandal gesticulated with his thin long-fingered hands.
“Ah ha... but you don’t understand the subtlety of politics.
That place, my friend, is our insurance. When we’
ve finally
whittled the population down to one they’ll hand it out, they'll
open the doors and let it flow freely across the grass in front
of the building. Only when the last living human stands alone
will they cover the ground of New York with juicy spunk.”
“What if the last survivor’s a man?”
“Well, he’ll drown in his own seed, brother. ..a just_end
to male chauvinism.” ,
They walked together, gingerly across the grass that sur-
rounded the hallowed temple of the World Sperm Reserve.
“T wonder what it’s worth?” Pinball considered.
34
 THE CABAL 35

“Depends who’s buying.”

“There’s only one interested party, I imagine.” They con-
tinued walking.
“Do you think they’re really interested. . .I mean, it would
be a bit embarrassing if we went to all that trouble to get into
the place and then sat around while they ignored us... it'd
make my face red. I don’t know about yours.” Pinball kicked
a stone on the pathway as they stepped off the grass.
“Why would they guard it so heavily... look at all those
alarm systems. .. just look at them.”
“Hm, I suppose you’re right...mind you, that raises an-
other question.”
“What?”
“Getting into the place.”
“Ha... you’re the tactician, not me. I thought you’d got the
whole thing buttoned up.” Vandal turned to look up at Pinball.
“Blueprints are one thing, this is something completely dif-
ferent.”
“T see.” Vandal walked, his head down again.
A long low siren sounded from across the square and a
ground car sped past and swished to a halt about thirty meters
from them.
“There you are, they know about us already, and we’re only
thinking.”
Pinball turned and moved away from the direction of the
police vehicle. Vandal stayed put. “Come on, you stubborn
bastard, just because you’re ENA doesn’t mean they can’t doff
me. I’m on the TCID lists... all they got to do is train those
bloody traps on me and you’re one man short.”
Pinball watched the occupant of the vehicle step on to the
street.
“It’s Dutch. For Chrissakes, I’m getting the hell outta
heres
“What’s he doing near that hotel . . . you know who’s staying
there don’t you?” Vandal almost flushed.
“We're bloody staying there, that’s who .. . and the others
_. , all of us . . . God, he’s on to us.”
wanted
“Funny damn time of day to set up a raid...if he
it at midni ghtor someth ing, not at two
to catch us out he’d do
in the afterno on.” Vandal backed off neverth eless.
 36 | Philip Dunn
“Look, they’re not armed. ..there’s only one ground car,
anyway, what’s he up to...” Pinball stood behind Vandal, ill
hidden.
“Maybe he wants to parley.”
“What? Dutch? Talk?”
“Well, you never know, maybe someone tipped him off,
maybe he wants to suss_us out.”
The ground car sped away leaving the small, sagging In-
teropol detective standing alone. He turned -towards Pinball
and Vandal and actually waved at them. “He’s bloody waving
at us. That guy’s nuts.” Pinball looked like a schoolboy playing
truant. 5
“He’s not nuts, that’s one thing he’s not. He wants to talk.”
“It’s a trap, Vandal, you step across that road and he’II blast
- your head off. He’s probably got ten doffers waiting in the
street round the corner, just ready to gut us from hgre to Cin-
cinnati.”
“No, not Dutch, he’s not like that. He doesn’t set traps.
He’s not got the imagination. Come on, I’m going to see what
he wants.”
“You're nuts then. I’m going back to London. I’ll see you
there.”
Vandal sauntered across the street, three swishing cars zip-
ping over his head. Dutch stood, loosely, on the other side
watching the traffic come and go, wondering faintly whether
a fortuitous vehicle might rid him of one of his greatest prob-
lems; the enigmatic Vandal. Dutch knew he couldn’t land
Vandal with a “Trap-field” as his Thermal Current Identity
(TCID) was untraced by the central records, thus the magic
letters after his TCID record—ENA/O “Of Enigmatic Origin”
or to put it more explicitly, “alien”.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Haarlem, what a pleasant surprise.
I had not expected to see you here.” Vandal marched up and
stood before the Police Inspector with his hands sunk deep in
. his pockets.
“No, neither did Pinball it seems...caught short was he?”
“Pinball? You thought you saw Pinball?” Vandal faked.
“Good heavens, you must have new lenses in, Mr. Haarlem,
the last time I saw Pinball was in Paris about three months
ago.”
“Ah, mistaken identity, no doubt. Funny, I thought I heard

‘
 THE CABAL 37

a little bird tell me that several of your ‘friends’ were in these

parts.”
“Well, Mr. Haarlem, if you will rely on these pigeons.”
“Indeed ...er, will you join me in some refreshment? Per-
- haps we could sit down in this... er hotel?”
“Of course, as good a place asa any.”
“Quite.”
They walked together into the hotel and Vandal saw Roatax
duck behind a post to his right. As they passed she left the
building and set up watch outside. They entered the bar and
sat down. Vandal touched a small control on his seat and a
“dumb waiter” slid to their side.
Dutch put out a hand to lay a print on the machine, but
Vandal stopped him. “Please, allow me,” he said, spreading
his fingers and holding one hand a centimeter from the plate
. Offered by the dumb waiter. Dutch looked in surprise at the
gesture, for the credit systems that were fed through the waiters
in all these hotels were tied into the TCID banks and anyone
without a registered computer record would get no credit. But
the waiter’s acceptance light shone green. Curiouser and cu-
riouser.
“Well, Mr. Haarlem, what can I get you?” Vandal smiled,
pleased by the effect of his gesture.
“Er... ll have a beer, a root beer, thank you...”
“Two root beers.” The waiter zipped off on a thin gust of
air.
They sat for a brief moment in silence. Dutch looked about
at the hotel foyer and Vandal looked at Dutch.
“Pleasant place this,” Dutch offered. The foyer was very
large, a modern place with forty or fifty airborne servants
chugging about various duties. One of them slid in close to
Dutch and delivered a small message film which he glanced
at and stuffed into his pocket.
“Can’t get away from it, can you, Mr. Haarlem?” Vandal
commented. The two looked at one another for a moment.
Vandal’s cool gaze fixed languidly on Dutch’s ageing face.
“Do you know anything about sperm?” The question came
slowly. Vandal did not react visibly, for Dutch would not have
missed a flicker.
“Sperm... sperm. . . a substance connected I think with
the act of reproduction.”
38 - Philip Dunn
“Indeed ...a very valuable substance these barren days.” —
“I imagine that to be so.” You had to hand it to Vandal,
he played a great game of poker.
“Do you know, that in that building across the square there
are seventy-six thousand tons of sperm?”
“Is that a fact?” Vandal frowned, he had not known quite
the extent of it.
“Seventy-six thousand tons, Vandal... that’s enough wrig-
glers to people this entire solar system eleven times over.”
Dutch echoed Pinball’s words.
“Did you work that out for yourself?”
“Can you imagine what our revered Government would pay
to keep that amount of life safe? Can you conceive, so to speak,
what the insurance premiums must be on that lot?”
“Enough to put Lloyd’s out of business I should imagine.”
“Absolutely. A lot of expensive interests tied up in that one
building.”
They were silent again. The dumb waiter delivered the root
beers and laid them gently down upon felt mats which slid
across the tables beside each and placed themselves neatly
under the tumblers.
“Good beer,” Dutch commented.
Vandal acquiesced. Dutch sat in silence, slowly drinking
the clouded beer in long, thirsty gulps. The sweat on his fore-
head glistened and his body looked as though it had just show-
ered.
“You lot know about the invasion, I suppose.”
“T know there is to be a charade put on in a feeble attempt
to kick world population in the arse. Yes.”
“Did you know they’re altering its intended locations. . . right
at the last minute?”
“I didn’t know that.” Vandal’s interest increased, unman-
ifestly.
Dutch spoke to him, all the time gazing about the foyer,
never once turning to face his friendly adversary.
“Yes...” Ponderously. “Not even I know what thelocation.
will be, actually ...Can’t think how you’ll ever find out.”
“Why . would I wish to find out?” Vandal asked queru--
lously.
“I don’t know . . . silly supposition really VERS silly
 THE CABAL 39

.. . but well . . . there you do, don’t you?”

Dutch swigged back the remains of the beer and held the
beaker in his hand, examining it in the style of a man who was
thinking of other things. Without turning his eye towards Van-
dal he spoke, his voice lowered.
“You’re an odd one, Vandal. ..an odd one.”
“I... don’t quite follow your meaning, Mr. Haarlem.” Van-
dal retained his cool, aware that Dutch was leading up to a
small bombshell. He had learned the ways of this shrewd old
detective.
“T don’t know . . . you seem unable to settle for anything
. . . always on the move . . . always shifting from one thing
to another, as though you were unsure of yourself . . . unwilling
to trust anyone. . . a loner I suppose.”
“Where, may I ask, is this conversation leading?” One thing
Vandal did not like was someone who could see into
him. . . almost uncomfortable state for Vandal, and Dutch knew
that too.
“Oh, nowhere really...nothing specific, but "you know
what a nosey old devil I am.” He smiled at Vandal, at last
turning his gaze towards him, those craggy old eyes surrounded
in wrinkles pondering the reaction of his victim. The smile
was not an authentic one. In fact, as Vandal steadied on it he
thought back that he had not seen an authentic smile grace that
hardened face on any occasion. Vandal nodded that he knew
this. He knew better than to warn off a man like Dutch but he
wanted to know more of what the Chief doffer had found.
“Tt never fails to fascinate me, Mr. Haarlem... you in-
variably appear to know things about me before I know them
myself.—Come.. . have another beer and instruct me upon my
future.” It was almost a clever way of getting what he-wanted,
but Dutch merely smiled, far too wary to fall for a line like
that. His purpose had been achieved.
“That is most generous of you, Vandal . . . but one root
beer is good, two will send me to sleep . . . and I have much
to do . . . finish your drink . . . don’t rush . . . There is no
need to see me out.”
And he was gone.
A few minutes later Pinball waltzed into the lobby and sat
beside a very disturbed Vandal.
40 SIE Philip Dunn
“I thought you’d gone back to London.”
“Decided to stay...can’t leave a pal to hold the rope.”
Pinball snapped at the waiter for a drink. He paid in cash.
Silence. ““What’d he say?”
“Hm, nothing and everything . . . he suspects our plan to get
into the sperm banks. He knows we know about the invasion
and, as usual, the bastard is one step ahead...”
“What?” |
“He told me they’re planning to alter the location of the
invasions at the last minute.”
“He’s conning you.” Pinball chewed off the-corner of an
“Infecto-pack”, anticipating the arrival of his tumbler.
“Don’t be ridiculous, why the hell should he do that?. . . if
its alie...”
“That’s Dutch’s way...he likes you to know he knows.
He’s just throwing out a line, hoping you’ll grab it.”
“Pah.” Vandal was shaken. Not like him.
Pinball watched him as he wiped the tumbler round the rim
with the small damp paper from the pack.
“Tt’s not like you, though. . . all this panic. Did he say some-
thing else?”
“No...” Vandal swallowed. “No, nothing that I can re-
member.”
Pinball drank, with a small grimace at the first taste; the
“Infecto-pack” stated quite clearly on the outside wrap: “No
need to wait for the ‘Infecto-pack’ odor to disappear—im-
mediate evaporation.” Evaporation nuts. Better than filthy
germs though.
“Where’s Roatax? She nearly walked right into him.” Van-
dal sat back finally in his chair.
“Lucky for Dutch she didn’t, she’d have eaten him alive.”
“She been guzzling blood again?”
“I don’t know . . . shé’s outside, watching . . . really, I
feel like a bloody schoolkid waiting for the head teacher to
pounce. Why don’t we get out of this dump?”
“No ...I want to know what he’s up to. He’s laying some —
bloody plan, and I want to know what it is. Let’s get Weekold
and Faction . . . bring Roatax as well . . ; I’ll meet you around
the Carnival site in an hour.”
 THE CABAL 41

Vandal stood and left abruptly.

Pinball took out another “Infecto-pack” and summoned the
waiter.

* * *

Small parts of New York City remained much as they had for
several hundred years. Like some of 6th Avenue: America,
preserved in parts to show how the great city used to be.
Up on around 75th street the road settled down to only one
level, inhabited by the more elite members of New York so-
ciety. Not that apartments in general were hard to come by in
these people-less times, only in this area. Along the pavement
beside the lanky houses, stacked like new card decks, walked
four Thin-Men.
The Thin-Men of New York were a mafia group. They had
established a powerful hold on the property market a century
earlier when the city leases ran out. They had formed a con-
federation and bought up vast numbers of the remaining houses.
Now they charged huge rents to their occupants and controlled
a protection racket against the numerous marauding gangs that
ran about the streets. A paradoxical affair in times of little
need.
The problem presented to the city council would not appear
too hard to solve, were it not for one factor. The Thin-Men
were all, to a single skinny member, enigmatic, ENA/O. Not
one of them had any recorded TCID reading on the doffers’
computer. They were a knotty problem and much suspicion
surrounded all their actions. But the Interopol forces ‘had trou-
ble enough and a bit of protection and property fraud was not
something to occupy them for long at a stretch. The Thin-Man
squad walked, as always, with purpose, out of 74th into Central
Park and Downtown. One of them eventually hailed a cab, and
instructed the autodrive to take them to the Carnival Center.

Their machine stopped outside the main entrance set up in the

city and as they climbed out one looked sideways for an instant
to see Vandal standing in a credit-phone booth by the entrance.
Vandal met his glance but neither made any sign of recognition.
42 Philip Dunn

The Thin-Men entered the arena, flashing passes and were

gone.

The entrance to New York’s Carnival looked directly up at an

enormous globe suspended above a stone, atop a hundred steps.
To either side were metallic curtains hanging from the roof of
the arena one hundred meters high and the floor between the
entrance and the “International Statue” was thtee hundred me-
ters across and two hundred meters long.
Every centimeter of the floor was covered in names; the
names of every living human being, drawn from the Census
computers of the TCID records. Needless to say, neither Van-
dal nor the four nameless Thin-Men were among the myriad.
Once the Carnival halls and playgrounds of New York City
were open, children would spend hours scuttling across the
floor trying to work out the complex alphabetical system which
might reveal their names, chiselled by photo-chemicals into
the granite. But now, the atmosphere was unready. Carpenters
wavered dangerously on scaffolding, engravers hung from the
roofing with air-brush tools, covering the massive curves of
architecture with grand paintings and great imagery. The com-
bined noise was cacophonous as directors yelled through tan-
noys and lighting experts swung like gibbons. The sound men
bellowed testing routines down the polyphonic mikes and
everyone did his part. Like a huge rehearsing auditorium the
Carnival arena crashed and banged, buzzed and prepared for
the greatest “Decadent Fair’ earth would ever know.
On the far right side of the entrance hallway a bridge
spanned the dike built for an artificial river. Upon the other
side a castle had already been completed, its turrets rounded
and sensuous and its windows coated in the fashionable silk-
mirror fabric, making each opening glisten and sparkle from
small light reflections shining upon its eyes.
In the middle of this narrow, ornate bridge walked Vandal.
His characteristic stride could not be mistaken; the walk of a
determined small man.
Darkness surrounded the castle, emphasizing the effects of
the spot-lights upon the windows and behind all was quite
black. Long, angled, winding steps slid away from the base
 THe Casal 43

of the castle and down into the empty dike, also lightless.
Only half of the steps were visible so that anything could have
been down there and at this stage in preparations no one seemed
actively to be descending into the depths. Vandal approached
the other side and as he did so the four Thin-Men started to
the crossing. The entrance to the castle was not barred for the
oak door had not yet been fitted so that Vandal walked straight
in and began up the stairway, ascending high into the top turrets
and finally to a small room where he moved straight to a table.
Here he sat, waiting for his rendezvous.
“How long have we?” asked Thin- Man One.
“Thirty minutes.’
“Good, tell us the problems.” They sat about the table and
observed Vandal.
“Wait, there is another coming to this meeting.”
They waited in silence.
The other arrived and sat.
“Good,” Vandal spoke. “Now, it appears that one Inspector
Haarlem in the Interopol force knows something of our plans.”
“What does he know?” The latecomer spoke.
“That is what I would like to learn, Clock Man. That is why
I suggested you come. I need your authorization to get these
tough guys to do a little ground work for us.”
“So?” The Clock Man turned to the Thins.
“I’m sure we can find what you need. Give us a day and
a night and we will report direct to Vandal.”
“Good, well, that’s got rid of that one. Now, for the progress
report, sir.” Vandal turned to face the Clock Man. As he did
so the other four stood and left without ceremony.
“T am told, that the locality of the Carnival invasion will
be altered at the last minute. Do you suppose that this will
make any difference to the plans?”
“None whatever. So long as there is plenty of noise the plan
must succeed, in any event—it is not true—you have been fed
false information.”
“Good. The Cabal’s intention to take over the Sperm Re-
serve is under control as you intended. I can see no problem.
Inspector Haarlem will draw upon the main New York Intero-
pol force to double security, thus leaving a sparse policing of
44 Philip Dunn
other... er... more vital areas.”
“Good. Do you anticipate any trouble with your confed-
erates?”
“None.”
“Very well... what further business have we?”
“Do you propose to give us any help with the Sperm Reserve
break-in?” Vandal asked.
“No... your tactician, Pinball, is too shrewd to risk inter-
vention. He would spot us and we cannot afford his suspicion.”
“Do you wish to know anything of the plan of entry?”
“No, again, we are not concerned about the success of the
venture, only that it should act as an effective diversion. We
hope that it will not even be necessary, our forces are powerful,
they will sweep Earth very quickly.”
“Then why are we bothering at all?”
“Because these are my instructions. ..I am here to arrange
whatever diversions possible so that there are as few armed
forces in control on central areas... we are not interested in
the Sperm Reserve, quite the reverse, we would be very happy
should you inadvertently destroy the entire building, that can
only help.”
“see.”
“Good ... . now . . . for your information . . . the main
landing forces will arrive...”
“Please...” Vandal broke into the Clock Man’s speech.
“T don’t want to know any of the details...”
“Why? Have you no faith in your own ability to keep silent?”
“There is always a chance that I might give something away.
There are so many methods of extracting truth these days,
bravery and secrecy are things of the past. Keep your secrets
to yourself, they’re safer that way.”
“Very well...I accept your judgement, but I would add
one thing, Vandal... you may be like us in one way, but your
origins are not loyal to us, we know of your devious nature
and it is only tolerated as long as you remain true. Should you
step outside that truth you must be aware of the consequences.”
“Clock Man . . . donot threaten me . . . I have dealt with
greater strength than yours . . . I choose whom I serve, and -
those I do not and it is my decision which way the coat turns,
not yours.”
 THE CABAL 45
“Very well, Vandal, so long as we understand one another.”
Abruptly the interview ended. Vandal was steady, but
threats always made him feel faintly sick.

* * *

A couple of hundred meters away from Vandal’s rendezvous,

four striking characters entered the main doors of the Carnival.
They watched for doffers, and made, by several differing
routes, for the main entertainment floors at the back of the
Earth globe.
Pinball ambled along the magic stalls. He passed the last
of the huts and touched Roatax’s hand in passing. .
Weekold jumped as Faction moved beside him and tapped
his other shoulder. Faction was in uncharacteristic good humor,
but poor Weekold, suffering as always from his blind spot, did
not appreciate the gesture.
“Don’t do that, Faction, please.”
“Sorry. Just thought I might surprise you.”
“T don’t like surprises. Any case what’s got into you? Why
the silly jokes? You’ve done nothing but snigger at everyone
and everything since we got here.”
“IT saw Holly yesterday, that’s all.” ;
“T might have guessed.” Faction and Weekold were the two
original members of the Cabal and their frigndship, under var-
ious guises of indifference, flourished.
“Looks like being a fine fair.” Faction commented as they
passed Pinball and Roatax, who milled watchfully about the
shooting galleries. “Hm. Hadn’t really been looking to be hon-
_est. The place makes me feel nervous. I’m going to have to
change apartments again soon. I get so sick of pissing around
from one place to another.”
“Yes.Well, you'll have to make some arrangement with
your localaldoffers, that’s the only way you’ll get peace.”
“Never.”
“O.K., well then you’ll have to get used to pissing around,
won’t you?”
“Thanks a lot.”
They continued their waite:
Vandal moved into view and they followed, like a bunch
46 Philip Dunn

of evil gangsters on an old Chicago street.

Vandal spoke in a voice audible only to his immediate
surroundings.
They all stopped, each facing a different angle in front of
an unattended electro-dart stall.
“T have made enquiries—there are no problems—we should
put the first phase into action.”
“What’s that?” Faction asked facetiously.
“Nut—the money of course—get the money.”
“Oh, yes, the money ” They all looked at Faction who
grinned sheepishly.
“TJ shall have to go out of town for a while—have some
enquiries to make about Dutch—I’m sure you can all manage -
‘the Chase Manhattan Bank without me.”
“Chase Manhattan Bank?”
“Shut up, Faction,” offered Weekold.
“Well—I feel stupid—stood here like a bunch of poofters.”
“T’ll take on the Bank—then I'll start the ‘trap shutting’
operation,” said. Pinball—‘Where can we contact you, Van-
dal?”
“Don’t worry—I’ll contact you,” Pinball frowned—some-
thing was out of place—but he dismissed it from his mind and
them from his presence.
’
 CHAPTER EIGHT

The Lands of Atonement

The people of Calm were long-faced and druid. Their flowing

cloaked figures stood tall and gaunt. Their tenderness was
darkened by times of abstinence. The Calm winds blew always,
gushing the long hair of its people in rhythm with their thick
garments. They made a striding picture as they walked, their
heavily embossed thigh-length boots stepping surely upon the
hard, unyielding ground.
They strode with tall sticks, used for protection against the
foot-pads that haunted every dark corner. Their eyes shifted
about, searching for danger in an environment that had held
its own against every attempt.at taming.
“Casterman” was a Space port where a million ships laid
ready at the harbors of “Skypad One”. Four other ports housed
as many ships, each built for a long journey that would carry
ten million Calmalese soldiers and marshals, warriors and
chiefs for months through space, across seven million miles
of blackness to the planet Earth.
High in the top of the port were the noses of the spaceships;
_ the “Flyers”, standing a hundred meters above the solemn heads
_ that passed beneath. At the base were the port “conveys”, the
47
 48 Philip Dunn

entrance bays through which the exodus of armies would board,

the way, they hoped, to a better world for a better life.
Two Calmalese walked together, pacing their staffs with
their feet, their feet with their swinging arms, heads forward,
purposeful in every step. The high, layered collar to Farrago’s
cloak flapped about his neck and the thick pleats flowing almost
to the ground revealed each booted leg, surrounded by darkness
and the warmth against his planet’s cold winds. The picture
was one of power and leadership. The tall staff was gripped
high on a shaft by a long-fingered hand, his eyebrow stretched
the whole width of his narrow, boned face, the emerald green
eyes, those of an aristocrat on Calm, pupil-less, and cold.
Farrago was Guard Marshal of the “Flyers”, military leader of
a tactic that would save or slaughter a race and he frowned at
it. He frowned at the deed to be started that day. And the slim
jewel, hung on his forehead, bobbed gently. Along the quay-
sides lay his army; his infantry, slouched and sleeping heads
down, blankets wrapped about their thin shoulders, waiting for
the order to board. These were the lowest ranks; the bums of
Calm, chosen for their undiluted hatred of Calm. Picked by
hand to smash an enemy through sheer fury and the knowledge
that no future could outdo the past for discomfort. Along the
fifteen kilometers of “Skypad One” lay a million of them, but
not one spoke, not one had a tongue, for these lower levels
were muted at birth; a punishment to begin a life of punishment
which would remain so to its end. Their eyes were black and
dense, a slight cloud obscuring any betrayal of inner life. Be-
side Farrago strode Donya, his first mate, “The Lanyard” of
the fleet who commanded all but Farrago. His shoulders carried
the heavy cloak too, obligatory on Calm among the aristocracy,
and over one shoulder draped on ornate tapestried scarf de-
noting his class and his office. All ranks below Farrago wore
some drape of this nature. Farrago had no need for such blan-
dishments; everyone knew Farrago.
They spoke freely, Farrago instructing Donya in his duties
_ and the policy set for departure. His voice was always quiet,
almost hushed, the tones gentle and expressive. But the words
spoken were commanding and indisputable for the rank of
Grand Marshal carried the power of death and Farrago, for all
his soft talk, held a big stick and was never afraid to use it.
 THE CABAL 49
Donya looked upon him as the supreme master, only to be
obeyed. He had thus earned the respect and trust of his leader.
The ornate hulls of the ships reflected no light and only the
occasional colored marking on the. dense metal relieved the
greyness of their character. A-standing soldier pressed the back
of his hand against his chest as Farrago passed, the sign of
salute to a chief much feared. Farrago turned his eyes with an
instant’s stare and, expressionless, returned the gesture. The
soldier watched him depart.
Soon they would leave Calm forever. There would be no
returning, whether as victors or losers, the army of the Calms
would never see their world again.
The figures receded against the dusk moonlight and from
_ above the vast harbor of space the million craft stood in order,
_ Shaped about the launch-pads in a ranked curve from top end
back to top end, full circle. Three hours would pass now and .
Farrago would return. The armies of the Calm had lived about
the barracks of “Skypad One” for a year, in preparation for
departure and the buildings swept in a steady rise from the
bottom end of the harbor around the great curve to the top
where the horizon was visible between two giant statues, each
with a tail to the sky. Between these gaunt statues was the
black Moon of “Many”, always in eclipse. Its diffused light
shone like an aureole down upon the strange gathering of
power, and the bridges that spanned the castles on the far ridge
cast faint shadows upon the ground about the launch-pads. The
castles were the oldest dwellings of Calm, built a million years
before in the early times of the people when they had first
brought life to the planet. They had come from another world
then and planned to move on now. A million generations had
passed upon the hostile world. Like medieval monks they had
strived for longer than man could remember in his history
books and yet they called it failure. For their forefathers had
outlived the planet before this. Their ancestors had inhabited
the “First World” several million years of civilization and left
only to escape enemies. The people of Calm felt that their —
_ fathers looked down upon them in anger and so set out to atone
by conquering a rich fertile planet elsewhere in the galaxy; that
of Earth itself.
Farrago entered his chamber in one of the great castles. He
50 Philip Dunn

had walked his last round of the ships and now set down to
rest an hour before final orders were given. The Clock Men
were to visit him then and give him the words they so often
gave; words of soothed demand, sentences of sentience, each
phrase stacked against him, giving him no exit, no departure
point except that through which he would go by their will. For
even the leader has leaders; the Clock Men of Calm, the Time
Catchers who wielded the supreme weapon that even Farrago
could never dispute.
He slumped into a full-backed wooden chair, the arms knot-
ted but smooth from constant rubbing of anxious hands. Across
the table sat the odious Pint, Farrago’s henchman, his thick
haunches stretched out to the floor and the great sagging belly
slung inside a set of breeches made for an elephant. Pint’s
pointed head intensified the bird-like appearance of his face, _
the hairless features constantly grinning all around. No one
quite knew how things went with Pint, but when ordered to
kill he did it without murmur. He had risen through the ranks;
a rare and desperate climb for one born into his caste, for he
had begun life only a step above the infantry men. He had
escaped muting by a parent’s breadth. But, to watch him, you
would not know that he could utter any words or think any
thoughts, save the daily ravaging of any female in sight. For
Pint did not open his mouth except to eat meat, drink wine or
chew on a buxom Calmalese female. And when he did, the
breath that emerged stank of the rot within. —
“Well Pint, I hope you have them whipped and ready.”
Farrago pushed aside a plate of fruits and sweets set before
him. His stomach had not the complacency of his dining part-
ner, less so because of him. Pint grunted, chewing, and nodded
his head.
Donya stepped beside Farrago and took the plate away,
handing it to a waiting Calmalese girl. She slid her feet in the
sensuous style of her people, slipping her steps across the floor.
Her eyes did not leave the back of Farrago’s head as she
walked. Pint grunted again, looking at her. She flinched, hes-
-itated, looking at Donya, but the “Lanyard” gave no sign of
aid. She turned, put down the dish and slid across the room
to Pint’s side.
 THE CABAL 51

He grabbed her and with one huge push thrust her slim body
on to the table side. He moved to his feet with uncredited speed
and with a quick movement ripped the cloth from her body and
exposed naked limbs. His other hand snapped the clips on his
bodice and released a hideous weapon. The Calmalese girl was
no more than sixteen years old and she stifled a scream as he
wielded the knotted, fleshy penis in front of her. Before Farrago’
had even turned to watch the act, Pint had jammed his cock
into her, thrusting like a heaving animal, still chewing on a
hunk of meat. The girl was obviously in agony but her screams
and flailing arms made no effect on the crashing, heavy frame
of her rapist.
Farrago looked on with dulled disdain, knowing that it
would take a pair of bulls to rip Pint from his pleasures. The
act lasted perhaps two minutes. The entire table was swept of
its food and the girl lay unconscious at the end, her limp legs
spread-eagled over the side, her face white and thin slithers
of saliva dribbling from the side of her mouth. Pint adjusted
his breeches, ordered a near-by steward to remove the half
dead body and slumped back into his chair. He turned the
pointed head to Farrago and without a single word, flashed
disrespect and satisfaction across the table. Farrago turned to
Donya.
“Go see if the Clock Men come, Donya, we can expect
them soon.”
“Yes, Marshal.” Donya went to the window.
Pint stabbed a dagger into the table and turned his head
down, knowing the short-lived effect of his act; always dead
to light, thickened to life.
“They approach, Marshal.”
“Leave us, Pint, go to your tasks, I want the ‘Plate’ ready
in one hour.”
Pint lifted more slowly this time, pushed back the huge
chair and strode from the chamber.
Donya moved into the center, beside Farrago.
“7 will kill that moron-this time. On this trip he must die.
I would not give him even to our enemies.”
“They are not our enemies, Donya, they are our pus
“Yes Marshal, but he must not reach them.”
52 Philip Dunn
Farrago sat still a moment. “He must live at least until we
are settled—his strength has its uses.” Donya looked down at
Farrago, a faint harshness spread across his face.

One hour later the Clock Men had left the Chamber.a aera
had his orders and was to leave at once.
“Come, Donya, say your goodbyes.”
“J have none, Marshal, there is no one I would take.”
“You are the fortunate one. Come.”
They walked to the door which led over a long bridge and
down on to the harbor of spaceships. A huge curved plate hung
in the air beside the bridge, the “Plate” of the Marshal, from
where he would hover over the space port and deliver his last
orders to the soldiers. He placed a long slender hand on his
“Lanyard’s” shoulder.
“What will you have on Earth, Donya?” |he asked.
“Sun, Marshal. ..sun.”
“Yes, I wonder how it will be to shed our cloaks.” He
remained still a moment, standing high on the castle’s bridge
overlooking the city of power that lay below him. As Grand
Marshal of all the Calm fleets he felt his legs weaken and the
pressure of the Clock Men bear down upon his shoulders.
Below him they looked up and above him they bore down. He
would surely be crushed before this fight was finished. “Light
the fires.’”” He spoke the words in his normal, unwavering quiet
voice and Donya moved away to the entrance of the chamber.
Across the other side of the “Skypad” a red light suddenly
sprung up from the ground and a structure hitherto invisible
was thrust sharply into a multitude of shadows. It stood taller
than all other parts of the space port; a series of giant towers,
and at their middle now burned a fire, reaching up its arms to
the top.
“Are they coming?”
“Of course, Marshal, did you expect them not to?”
“No... but . . .” He stepped on to the plate. Below him
spread two million souls of Calm; the infantry now joined by
the ranks above them, then slowly came the officers until the
multitude had reached three million.
This was a mighty army indeed and all eyes searched for
the “Plate” that would guide them to their future.
 THE CABAL 53

“Well, Donya, I will join you soon, go now and prepare

our ship, we must not disappoint our audience.”
Donya felt strangely reluctant to leave his Marshal; the
unexpected talk, the strained face of an inescapable fate, the
air in its thickness. Somehow all these things dragged at the
“Lanyard”. “Go now, Lanyard, go, you have tasks to perform,
there is no time for our foolish emotions. It is theirs that count.”
And suddenly Farrago was steady aboard the “Plate” and sailing
rapidly away from the castle bridge.
As he reached the edge of the army gathering he heard the
beginnings of a roar, a growling, low-pitched sound that gath-
ered with the winds below and about him. It was the Calmalese;
the soldiers, the officers, the bums. They had risen and seen
his small figure sweeping across the air above them. All eyes
looked up as the tiny disc grew closer and larger. The great
gusting cloaks of Farrago flew behind him, his arms bent in
flight, his strong-booted legs placed wide apart and gripped
by the fields about the disc. It came so fast that some thought
it a stray meteor broken through the atmosphere. Others knew
that it was their Marshal and soon his great smooth powerful
voice was in their ears. Transmitted across the entire port they
could hear each word with perfect clarity and soon the “Plate”
stilled in the air and Farrago stood. There was complete silence.
Every one of the three million Calmalese stood without motion,
watching, waiting their orders. “People of Calm, this is your
Grand Marshal... this is Farrago.” The roar whipped up like
a contorted lash and sunk to nothing as fast. “There are three
million of us.” Again, a slight ripple of as many throats.
“Three million and one.” A terrific crash of voices.
“Calm is dead. . . long live the Calmalese.” Still more cries.
“Think on this, my army, think on this...” The slight mut-
ters of the people died right down as they listened and jostled
in the hosts.
“Across that sky there orbits a world three times the size
of Calm. Across those stars lies a rich land...a land so rich
that it belittles the people on it. . . perhaps we can relieve them
of some of their riches...”
Cheers.
“Or all of them.”
Mighty cheers.
54 Philip Dunn
“Hear me.” His voice dropped lower, confiding now in a
tone familiar to those who had faced his unbending will.
“Hear me now . . . for I tell you this . . . I tell you that
we will not just take a part. We will not just snatch a portion,
we will snatch all there is to take. We will stride on to Earth
and we will not borrow, friends, we will not take a loan from
the Men of Earth, we will deprive them forever of everything
they own.”
Cheers again. \
“Every last piece of Earth will be ours for our future and
they will not live to tell of it...not one of them.”
The vast scream of accord almost deafened Farrago with
its fury. He had whipped them up to this height of angry
revenge upon a people who knew nothing of an who de-
served none of it.
There was silence again as Farrago ieoken out over the
spread of his people. “Come now, for the time to board is
here. The time for our last departure from this forsaken, hulk
has come. Board your crafts the way you have been ordered
and see to your duties. Do not question your leaders for you
will not reach Earth that way. Remember the words of your
fathers: We oppose, we depose, we impose. Good fortune and
fury be with you.”
And the “Plate” sped across the sky carrying the Grand
Marshal to his ship. Within two days from that moment, four
million ships departed Calm with eight million of its warriors,
and two million. of its girls, the youngest, softest, most fertile
creatures in the universe, ready and willing to give seed to a
people who would gather the Planet Earth under them like
covetous magpies. The Lands of Atonement were abandoned
for the Lands of Rich and Plenty.
 CHAPTER NINE

Banks Have Wings,

or How a Reliable Whinter
Turns Coca Over Night

At 08:30 hours on Tuesday morning, June 6th, Jean Whinter

unlocked the front door of the bank and entered, securing the
lock again immediately. The security system had acknowl-
edged her approach and released the alarm set to sound out the
unfamiliar. Once inside she put down her bag, released the
cling wrap about her head and sat in front of the mirror which
popped from the side of the desk.
She had been to a party the evening before, her first party
for some time and she felt mellow. Her lips smiled to the taste
of the peppermint lipstick, her cheeks flushed at the faint rub
of majenta, her eyebrows raised a fraction higher to the touch
of a fine brush and her eyes flashed at their reflection, appre-
ciatively. Life was O.K. that morning. Really, it could have
been a lot worse.
The telephone sounded on the bleep beside the viewer. She
did not turn on the screen, even at her best a girl doesn’t want
to reveal herself at 08:30 in the morning. She flipped the audio
switch and the speaker came on.
“Chase Manhattan Bank, Good Morning.”
“Hi, er, this is the Chase Manhattan Admin Section, Block
64/mn, Harry Maims speaking.” — ..
Nee Pz
56 Philip Dunn
“Oh,” jumped Jean Whinter.
“Er... we have been instructed to move you.”
“To do what?!”
“Er...move you, madam.”
“I’m not madam, not yet.anyway, and what the... what do
you mean, move us?”
“I mean we have security clearance on the move scheduled
for today, the move to outer Suburb level D, section 43/bb.”
“I’m sorry but I think you’ve either got the wrong bank or
you’re several moves ahead of me...”
“Oh-ho . . . very good, very good indeed .. . buter...
you mean to tell me you don’t know about the move?”
“That’s right...I don’t.”
“Well, well, there must have been a hitch.”
“So it would seem.” Jean Whinter felt assertive.
“Still, it makes no difference... we have to make the move,
it’s scheduled in.”
“Now wait a minute... let me get this right, Mr. er... what
did you say your name was?”
“Harry Maims, Block 64/mn...”
“Now then, Mr. Maims, let’s start from the beginning...”
Efficient girl this. “You say that you have clearance to move
the bank... the whole bank?”
“That’s right, ma’am, the whole bank.”
“My name is Jean, call me Jean huh?”
“Yes Miss Jean.”
“Great, now...O.K....I'll have to check this out and get
back to you. When did you say you plan to make this... move?”
“Around 09:30 start, ma’am...Miss Jean...”
“Wow, you really don’t waste time do you... you really
intend to shift this bank from its slot and dump it down some-
where else ...in an hour’s time?”
“Well . . . words to that effect yes Miss Jean . . . though
it isn’t something we can do in a few minutes you know. . it’ll
take a.couple of hours for the whole move.”
“Oh? You amaze me...I imagined you es be going to
carry the whole thing away ona Se ” Jean was jok-
ing.
“We are.” Mr. Maims was not.
“Oh boy...O.K. give me your number and Ill call you
 THE CABAL 57

back in a few minutes.” Mr. Maims did so and hung up.

“Right, that’s stage one, Christ, this stuff works, Pinball,
where’d you get it?”
“T had a pal make it up. Very simple really... just a fancy
form of line tap...”
“Amazing,” Roatax enthused.
Meanwhile, back at the bank:
“I’m sorry to get you up so early but we’ve a rather un-
expected situation on our hands...” Jean Whinter explained
to her manager.
“Good God, Miss Whinter . . . well... er... you'd
better . . . I mean you’d . . . oh dear, I don’t really know
what you’d better, Jean. . .”
“Shall I check with head office, sir?”
“Yes Jean...of course, why don’t you check with head
office... 1711 be in as quickly as I can...”
“Very good, sir, I’m glad I called you, sir...”
“Yes, er... good work, Jean.” Talented girl that.
“Hello? Is that Chase head office?”
“Yes,” said Pinball.
“Could you give me the code please?” —
“2B 65/34bn... and yours?”
“56476/ghf.”
“Accepted, wait.’
Jean Whinter ae her fingers. The Assistant Manager
entered and dumped down his case to adjust a neat neck-scarf.
“We're getting moved,” she hissed at him.
“What?” he replied.
“Moved, we’re getting moved... today.”
“Moved? Moved where, what do you mean moved, how
moved?”
“Moved out... hello, yes.”
“You have connection clearance, who do you wish to speak
with?”
“Administration please.”
“Which section?”
ery ah wen 2 Wells 1505,”
“Do you wish to re-route your call later?”
“No...er, no, I guess I want moves.”
“Moves? What kind of moves, Miss?”
58 : Philip Dunn

“Well, er, Bank moves I guess.”

“Bank moves.” And the operator connected her as though
it happened each hour. Or nearer the truth Pinball clicked his
tongue over the line and changed voices.
“Yes... Bank removal Admin., can I help you?”
“T hope so, this is Chase Sector 5, Ocford Street, Nort End
Upper level 62. ve just had a call from your Block 64/mn,
admin, from a Mr. Maims.”
“Yes, our Mr. Maims called you to inform that the move
of the Bank is scheduled for today, is there any problem?”
“Er, oh no... er well . . .” Jean took her courage in her
hands.
“Well, yes, there is...”
“There is?” Astonishment.
“Yes.:.er y-y-yes, I suppose. . .” That killed it. “I suppose
there isn’t any chance of a little more warning... is there?”
“Warning, Miss? Warning? I see, well I imagine. . . did you
tell me your name, Miss...” Something about the tone of the
question gave Jean the impression that she should not have
solicited it. She felt that it might just lose her her job, a job
like all other jobs that was not so easy to come by and very
easily lost.
“Oh well, if it’s all been arranged I wouldn’t want to mess
things up now...”
“Oh no. I’m sure we can do something er Miss . . . Misssss

“No, no, I wouldn’t hear of it. I just wanted to confirm that

it was all in order before I turn off the alarms and close up for
the day.”
“No problems, Miss. No problems, just be sure that there
is some way they can get into the bank and that all personnel
are cleared. They should be encouraged to take the half day
off or they just get in the way, Miss. You can tell them that
the new location of the bank will be wired to them this afternoon
for the usual day’s work tomorrow.”
“Oh, right, yes.”
“Ts that clear?”
~ Very.
“Thank you, Miss. . . er Miss. . .”
“Thank you, goodbye.”
 THE CABAL 59

“Goodbye.” Pinball disconnected. “Christ.”

“Bloody brilliant.” Roatax confessed.
In due course the manager arrived at the bank and then
departed again. A shorter day even than usual. The rest of the
staff made equally brief visits to their place of work and at
09:30 hours only Jean Whinter was remaining.
As the electric clock touched the hour prescribed, 61 levels
below the bank a vast truck struggled around the narrow corner
and came to a halt directly in position. At the very same
moment a Ganto-copter levelled with the bank.
A sprightly looking individual leaned out of the side of the
copter and arranged an electronic clamp that ejected from a
large gun and attached itself on to the wall.
“Please would the last occupant of the bank now leave.”
““Y-y-y-y-yes...” Jean literally jumped from her place as
the clamped speaker bellowed through the wall. She scurried
out of the bank entrance and stood waiting for the elevator,
slightly crouched, like a doubtful mouse. The Ganto-copter
outside lowered much larger clamps on to the metal hull of the
bank and the truck below shot up a ladder to the base. The
man in the copter shouted various instructions into a transceiver
and the guy on the ladder shouted back above the massive whir
of the blades. The various clamps were moved into position
and the bank was ready.
Jean stood at the elevator door. It was open. She hesitated.
She didn’t know at all why she hesitated. Was it something
to do with the uncertainty of suddenly contemplating her trusty
bank being removed from under her feet? No... she had heard
of it happening before. Was it that she grew more suspicious
of the way in which it was brought about... with so little
warning? It had all happened very fast. Surely the bank head
office would have issued the order in triplicate several weeks
before.
It could be of course that they had and Mr. Harness had
mislaid the papers. He was wont to be a little haphazard in his
systems. Maybe he knew all along and didn’t like to admit it.
She stepped towards the elevator and stopped. The floor behind
her shifted. Like the beginnings of an earthquake on the 62nd
floor the gap was widening. She stood now with about a half
meter between her and the bank floor. The drop was several
60 ~ Philip Dunn
meters to the next floor but she jumped it. Taken by a com-
pulsive madness she had made the move without thought and
now the gap was far too big to jump back again. Jean Whinter
rushed across the moving floor and cowered in the most reliable
corner she could find, took out a cigarette and puffed hopefully.
“God, what the hell did that party do for me last night?”
But she felt rather good, her heart beating faster than it had
for some while. After all, how often is it that a girl gets the
chance to fly across London in her bank?
The Ganto-copter’s colossal blades swished and the bank
was carried high into the sky. The replacement section upon
the truck below was raised up and put into position immedi-
ately. A very full shell was swapped for an empty one,
“Wow, you guys really don’t mess about, do you?” Pinball
sat in the copter beside the pilot.
“We can’t afford to. We do this sort of thing all the time.”
The Criminal Loan and Faculty Agency was willing to ar-
range anything, anywhere, any time for any one. So long as
you had the cash, nothing was impossible. Pinball had fixed
with them to shift the bank for a percentage and costs. A very
large percentage and huge costs but whatever was in the bank
was half theirs and Pinball had no intention of arguing with
these guys; strange thin-faced, tall and lanky creatures. . . the
Thin-Men of course.
The copter landed the bank and dropped down beside it,
Pinball and the Thin-Man exited and stood beside the machine
as the blades slowed to a halt.
“How do we handle the money, do you want to go through
it and take half now or will you invoice?” Pinball smiled but
the Thin-Man did not.
“You will be contacted,” he said.
“Right.” And he was gone, along with the copter.
Pinball moved to the door and as he did so a car drew up
at the back of him and Roatax, Faction and Weekold climbed
out. “How’d it go?”
“Like a bloody package tour, not a hitch.”
“God, package tours have changed since I had one.” Roatax
ambled round the bank section. .
“Trouble is I didn’t think to ask him to blast the door off.”
“Can’t we just open it?” Faction placed one hand on the
 THE CABAL : 61
door lock and twisted. It opened amidst the clang of alarms.
Pinball fired his TCG at the alarm box above the door and
silenced the row.
On the other side of the door stood a small blonde-haired
girl. Her knees were shaking like a slimmer unit and in her
small hands rested a twin barrelled atom-blaster; of the variety
restricted to bank use, powerful enough to blow the side off
a building at ten kilometers. She looked like she might pull
the contact. between shakes and Faction darted back with mag-
nificent dexterity as the first blast warmed the air above his
head. He rolled and ducked behind the car, then thought better
of it and only stopped wher he found a rock twice his size.
“Anyone come closer and I'll knock off their heads,” an-
nounced Jean Whinter in most uncertain terms. All the more
frightful for that.
“What the fuck. . .?” Weekold shouted at Pinball.
“Don’t ask me, J didn’t invite her.”
“Well get rid of her, knock her out.”
“You knock her out.”
“Why, what’s the matter with you, lost your nerve or some-
thing?”
“Yes... anyway she’s too pretty to scatter around the inside
of a bank...we got to clear the money out of there, I don’t
want blood and guts all over everything.” 5
“Christ, I have to do everything myself... what’s the matter
with you bastards anyway?” Weekold stepped out from the
rock towards the bank and the rock lost a corner of its bulk.
Weekold leaped around ten steps up and ten to the side, dis-
appeared around the bank to the back and stood, leaning against
the wall breathing heavily, his eyes popping out.
“Christ, you little bitch, you almost killed me,” he yelled
inadvisedly and Jean turned, fired again and knocked a hole
in the wall of the bank about half a meter along from where
he stood.
Pinball was into the bank and had his arms wrapped round
her slender torso in about two and one half seconds.
“Got ya, my little beauty.”
“Oh God, don’t kill me please... please don’t kill me...
eas
“I can’t think of many reasons why I shouldn’t. You should
62 Philip Dunn

be ashamed of yourself . . . this thing’s built for removing the

top of mountains . . . can you imagine what anyone would
look like after a face full from that muzzle . . . look at the size
of it . . .” Pinball pointed the blaster at poor Jean and she
fainted.
“Well thanks for that...my God, a half meter closer and
you would have been short of one.” Weekold still shook.
“Right, come on then, let’s get the stuff out and be away.”
“What about the girl?”
“She’ll have to come with us. She can live with me for a
while.”
Pinball seemed quite happy at the idea and nobody else
objected so poor unsuspecting Jean was bundled into the back
of the car. The money was plentiful and filled the boot locker
of the car to busting.
“There’s about 10 million there, that’!] do us for a while.”
“Yeh, it’ll just about cover shutting up the squeekers.”
Weekold smarted.
“O.K., let’s be off. Bye bank, nice knowing you.”
That night in one of the palatial Pinball residences, this one
tucked away in the heart of the Arizona desert, little Jean
Whinter had another party, a party she would never forget.
She did forget about the Chase Manhattan Bank and about her
hair-raising experience that day however, with the aid of the
great bald-headed monster who joined her that night. He may
have been a criminal, he may have had a withered arm and
somewhat oversized feet but nothing else was withered and his
size did nothing but enhance her pleasure. She turned once
more in the enormous bed and invited Pinball to make love to
her again.
And so it was that poor Jean Whinter ended her banking
days and became Pinball’s ninth wife.
* * *

Stage one of the Pinball plan was complete. They had acquired
enough cash to shut the hungry mouths of the “grabbing” pi-
geons around the city centers where Dutch got his information.
With a bit of luck the resulting confusion would give them
a month or two to produce a suitable diversion.
But there was a problem. A big problem; Vandal.
 _ THE CABAL 63
Twenty-four hours after securing the bank and its contents,
Pinball had been hard at work, along with his confederates,
bribing every petty crook and stoolie into a state of quiet. During
the course of this task he arranged a meeting with a major
influence in their quest for silence; one Jabber; so named for
his uncanny skill in knowing what went on in the dark and
bleary world of crime. Jabber was a master of information.
Somehow he had survived to tell of a hundred intended mis-
demeanours, felonies and bad deeds. His sources were un-
known and his own nine hundred lives were still not quite run
out. He moved about like an old frog, taking off to another
sodden and stagnant pool following each well paid and subtle
delivery of fact to his paymaster, Dutch himself. Jabber got
there first on most occasions. Like an ace reporter he invariably
scooped the biggest crimes before they got off the underground
and Dutch was the only doffer to know Jabber’s whereabouts
at regular intervals.
It had cost Pinball ten thousand dollars just to get to him;
just to find his latest beaten and shabby door and three days
of unrelenting search had led him to a part of Paris infrequently
visited by the general public. ;
Off a tiny street from the Boulevard St. Germain, in
broken-down hotel, used mostly by ageing prostitutes, Pinball
fought his way up the broken and curving staircase to the top
floor. Outside the door stood a huge man. His arms were folded
- across a chest large enough to dam a river and his massive toe-
capped feet splayed out to each side of tree-trunk legs. Jabber’s
secret, or part of it, was this dumb, Hungarian-born bodyguard
named Limun, who, for reasons best known to himself, was
always at his side. Like a shabby double-act the pair would
be seen shadowing through the streets of the city downtown
areas on their way to tell the secrets of their strange and dan-
gerous profession.
Pinball had known of Jabber for years. Even as a young
teenager the name was familiar in the school yards, but he had
never met him, nor his massive stooge. He was fortunate
enough never to have been betrayed by Jabber. This was an
essential part of the prospected meeting. Jabber had made him-
self a rule many years back; he walked with a pronounced
limp. He had suffered this disability for twenty years from the
 64 Philip Dunn
date when three large men had taken his body and thrown it
twenty meters from a high building. His false pelvis was badly
constructed and the thigh bone, taken from a dead man, was
ill fitting so that the gristle and muscle between the ball joint
of the hip were worn away from severe rubbing. His left foot
had not been correctly set. Even by modern methods a back-
street doctor does not have the facilities to do everything right.
The missing toes and twisted foot bone pronounced the limp
still further making Jabber a bent and physically inept creature
as he struggled on the hefty arm of his help-mate from Hungary.
So, he made the rule. No one, on whom he had informed,
under any circumstances, was allowed nearer than it took for
Limun to break his neck.
But Pinball was clean, expected and welcome. Jabber had
not hitherto informed on the Cabal, largely because he was
never quite sure whether the mighty Limun would be able to
break Pinball’s neck.
Pinball was not about to test this insurance as he stood about
a meter away from Limun, their eyes almost level.
“My name’s Pinball.”
Limun nodded and stood back from the door, opened it and
Pinball walked into the room. In his pocket was tucked a wedge
of cash, measuring 200,000 dollars; a high price to pay for
silence, but obligatory. No one knew what Jabber did with his
money but for sure he did not spend it on accommodation.
Such was the way of an informant’s life. He could not display
his profession and the alley-ways and back streets were his
habitual neighborhood. No doubt a Swiss bank or two carried
~ the pay-roll of this doyen of stoolies.
“Ah, so this is Pinball . . . the great Pinball . . . come in,
sir, you are most welcome. I do not believe we have ever
crossed one another before . . .”
“We have not, Jabber.”
“Though indeed I have heard much of your doings, sir.”
“T am glad that you have not seen fit to repeat them, Jabber.”
“Indeed. I have certain, shall we say, crude respect for you,
Pinball. It seems to me, and it has always, hitherto, seemed
that it would be in our interest, our mutual interests, to keep
close those matters which ripple about the waters of my world.”
Jabber’s speech was poetry to the ear. He chose his sentences
 THE CABAL 65
as one accustomed to thoughtful construction; with a delicate
precision. The information he lived by needed the mind of a
technician to stretch it to its maximum, thus extending the ~
available bank roll beyond the limits of an amateur who gabs
everything in one phone call to the doffers.
There was a moment’s silence as Pinball adjusted the upright
chair proffered to him by the bent old figure. It was the only
seat in the room worthy of Pinball’s bulk and it creaked as he
settled tentatively upon it. He felt uncomfortable in such sur-
roundings. Had he the time, a few “infecto-packs” would have
secured a more delicate seating arrangement. But he did not
wish to upset Jabber by his fastidiousness so he tolerated the
risk of infection.
“Tell me, Pinball, how goes it with the Cabal?”
“I’m sure, Jabber, you must know as much as I do.” The
words were offered as a compliment.
“You are most generous. Your secrets are always safe with
me, however. I would not presume to know all your business,
friend.” Jabber had a habit of rubbing his hands gently together
as he spoke, like one trying to cleanse them of the dirt they
had so often delved into.
“That comforts me. We have certain plans for the future
... but... well, Jabber.”
“Come, do not hesitate, Pinball, I would not wish you to
feel discomfort. You must forgive the habitation but, as you
know, I move in uncertain circumstances. It is the nature of
my profession you see...” He waved a bony hand, the fingers
strung together by years of fear.
“There is a plan. . . a big plan . . . a plan I must admit
to feeling uncertain of, though I have not said as much to my
friends.”
“Uncertain?” Jabber leaned forward, his hand placed against
the distorted hip.
“During the beginning of the Carnival . . . there will be
much opportunity for . . . diversion . . . opportunities that will
not occur again for some while.”
“Indeed, and you wish to take advantage of such circum-
stances. I would feel no uncertainty about that, Pinball. Indeed,
I should think that any plan you have devised is likely to be
most successful.” He did not give anything away, not Jabber.
-_
66 Philip Dunn
It was not in his nature to give anything away.
“Yes... but there are always those who would endanger the
plan.” ;
“You look upon Jabber and say such things?” He twisted.
his face sideways with a look of mock disdain.
“It is not so much that I distrust you, Jabber, it is more that
I would feel happier . . . more secure if I could make some
offering of compensation . . . something that would settle my
own sleepness nights . . . you understand, I am of a nervous
disposition . . .”
The charade continued, both players acting out the uncon-
vincing parts. 7
“Of course ...I quite understand. Like a sort of wager you
mean, where you, as the betting party, would wish to place
a certain gratuity in the hands of a broker who might. . . secure
those sleepless nights and make them peaceful.”
“Exactly.”
“Very well...certainly I would be willing to act as your
broker.”
Pinball took out the roll of high denomination notes from
his inside pocket and held them before him, not yet proffering
them.
“T have sometimes thought, Jabber, that our relationship is
most satisfactory. That your friend outside places us in a po-
sition of mutual trust. However, it has occurred to me too that
one so great has far to fall were he to. . . well . . . should
he make any move to step between us in an errand of protection
. . . his departure would spoil a happy and fruitful life . . .
your happy and fruitful life . . . would it not?”
“The thought had crossed my mind also, Pinball. ..I have
never been entirely certain what the result of a match between
you might be... so. . . in exchange for the gratuity, I propose
to offer a small gift of my own. This might seem to balance
out your contribution.”
Pinball handed over the notes. Jabber continued, his voice
croaking, slightly lowered.
“There is one among you, one who professes loyalty, one
upon whom I’m sure you plan to place a good deal of respon-
sibility. He is unique in the Cabal, his very nature setting him
apart from the rest; making him alien to your merry band... you
 THE CABAL 67
should beware of placing that responsibility on those narrow
shoulders. There is little doubt in my own mind that you would
regret it.”
In shutting one door, Pinball had inadvertently opened an-
other.
of sec.
“I would not wish to be too specific, but your uncertainty
is better placed away from this area of leakage for in my hands
your secrets are firmly kept, as I said... but in this other way,
there are big holes, Pinball. You would be well advised to
block those holes. . . quickly.”
“Can you...for a further consideration, be more specific
about the nature of these leaks?”
_ “Your generosity is already unparalleled and I would not
wish to stretch it further... you will need your money, Pinball.
Keep it. My contribution is made.” This said, Jabber sealed _
his lips.
“Very well, I accept your choice. Thank you. I had not
intended that you should give as much as you have.”
“T like you Pmball. I think you will go far and my small
efforts may serve to contribute to that advance. Suffice it that
I am pleased to have been of help.”
The formalities were concluded and Pinball left.
 CHAPTER TEN

Vandalised

Vandal’s ground car travelled at 200 kph down the freeway,

out of town. He knew there was something up. He knew they
were on to him and he didn’t plan on letting them too close.
He knew Pinball and Weekold. He knew Roatax, the practised
executioner, and he didn’t fancy being eaten. He knew Faction
and really he wasn’t hot for a grapple with those great hands.
So he put down his foot in a manner and the car reached 250
kph. The car had crossed the outer habitation limits, the dor-
mitory units were before him, spread like flattened, cement-
filled holes, sprouting unoccupied high-risers. Thousands of
shops, banks, apartment blocks, open boulevards, cinemas,
gardens, heliports, christ knows. All built over two hundred
years before; built to last. Everything looked after, cherished’
like they were antiques (which they were by some standards)
by the underworked people. Too few people for too many
apartments. This was suburbia gone bad. Even the kids were
bored with belting up and down in the elevators. They were
never closed. Nothing was locked or barred, a porter stood on
every door, or behind each desk in the foyers of the apartment
blocks and one security guard for every floor of every block. |
 THE CABAL 69
X
The cleaners cleaned the floors, dusted the empty mantel-
shelves and polished the brass door handles. The maintenance
staff checked the atomic power units and heating systems. They
tinkered with the electric wiring. The accounts for power were
vast just from the guys who turned the lights on and off, just
to be sure they would turn on and off. But no one minded.
They all understood, perfectly.
Seventeen thousand apartments were occupied by 8000 peo-
ple in the part which Vandal approached.
But, said the Minister of Housing, one day the empties
would be filled and everyone would be delighted that the apart-
ments were in such good order after so long. It was estimated
by the Prediction Committee on Population Movement, that
within five years, or thereabouts of the Carnival, 20 per cent
of the available housing would be filled. God, they had tried
everything else and always been wrong, surely they couldn’t
be wrong again. Vandal looked down at the radar screen on
his panel. He was being followed. The car travelled thirty
kilometers behind and was catching up, fast. A minute later
the gap was reduced to 20 kilometers.
“Shit, they really want me bad.” He shoved the speed up
to 350 kph and the car behind increased accordingly. Vandal
touched a control on the dash and the radar screen became a
detailed map, showing the local geography, identifying all the
roads, apartment blocks, eating-houses, stopping-points, di-
versions, a telephone directory, a complete list of businesses,
all at the twist of a dial. Vandal wanted to know just one thing;
_ just where the hell he could. go to get away from the Cabal.
The map showed a sky exit three kilometers ahead but by
the time he had prepared to instruct the machine it was too
late. The next exit was another ten kilometers. There were road
turns but he would have to slow down to under 50 to get off
in one piece so he adjusted the speed control once more. It
wasn’t the most modern of vehicles and he didn’t want to end
up a pile of twisted metal. A few moments later the opening
in the protective force shields about the road appeared and the
car, pre-instructed, lifted off the road and was up into the sky.
Vandal programmed for a turnabout, a loop and a couple
of double flips. Then he ejected.
A moment later the following car shot out of the force shield
70 Philip Dunn
and after Vandal’s gymnastic motor. By the time they hit the
clouds Vandal was much nearer the ground, sliding down
through a roof entrance in an apartment block, intent on oc-
cupying one of the high-rise pads for a few low-lying days.
The Cabal, snugged into the chase car, lost their way and
stopped at the base of another apartment block. “So what the
hell do we do now, that little bastard’s up to something behind
our backs and we can’t make a move until we know what.”
“Neat assessment of the situation Weekold, but sadly of
little use to us.” Pinball was irritated at the untidyness of their
predicament.
“He’s got to be in one of those high-risers,” Roatax voted.
“Not for long, you can bet he’ll get the hell out pretty quick,
back to his own planet maybe.”
_ “T wonder where that is?” Faction was dreaming.
“He can go to hell for all I care.” Weekold had a false sense
of loyalty about his fellow criminals. When one of his men
turned coat it bugged him.
“Oh sure, that’s fine, big talk Weekold but we’re stuck,
there’s not a bloody thing we can do until we find him.”
“O.K., so let’s find him,” Roatax said.
“How?”
“Come now, I thought you were the College graduate, some
bloody joke if we can’t track him down one way or another. . .”
“You're a thousand years out of date Roatax, no ordinary
snooper is going to risk his skin to tell the Cabal about one of
its own members. It’s everyone for himself now, we’ll have
to do it the hard way, split up, check every apartment block
until someone lets out they’ve seen him.”
They left the ground car where it was and began the long
arduous task of asking at every door. A lot of arm twisting
and badgering got them nowhere and five hours later they all
returned, sadly lacking.
As they sat, once more, dumbfounded, three small boys
rushed past the car carrying a large piece of silk. It flapped in
the wind and they played a game, pretending to use it as a
parachute. Pinball looked out of the window and suddenly
jumped from his seat.
“Hey, those kids, do you see what they’re doing?”
“Playing silly kids’ games I imagine.”
 THE CABAL 71

“Yes, but look what they’ve got.”

“Looks like a parachute...” Weekold muttered dumbly.
“Exactly, where do kids get a bloody parachute?”
“Vandal.”
Pinball leaped from the car and went towards the children
who scattered at the sight of the giant walking their way.
“Who wants a ten dollar bill?” The result was magic. They
all returned faster than they’d fled.
“Which one of you found the ’chute?”
“What’s it to you mister?”
“Ten dollars, and you can keep the. chute.”
They all looked at one another, calculating ten divided by
three. It didn’t go.
“T’ll make it twelve dollars, that’s four each.”
“On top of the block over there, mister, that one.”
Pinball handed over the bills and returned to the car.
“Well?”
“He’s in the block over there, that one, Argentina Block.”

On the morning of June 8th, two days after the robbery, Dutch
was on the war-path.
“Listen you block-headed doffer.” He spoke to one of his
detective sergeants. “The Chase Manhattan Bank in Ocford
Street, 62nd level, now deceased, vanished, vamoosed, is. . . was
thirty meters above and sixty meters to one side of Blind AlI-
ley... right?”
“Right.”
“Now who lives in Blind Alley?”
“Er...” Eccles like.
“For chrissakes...if you don’t know who lives on Blind
Alley then what the hell are you doing on my force . . . Peter-
bloody-Kierney lives on Blind Alley that’s who . . . Weekold
. . self-styled member of the Cabal .. . THE CABAL . .
THE CABAL . . . you KNOW?” The volume of Dutch’s voice
rattled windows in the Interopol headquarters.
“Oh,” muttered the sergeant.
“Oh?! Oh? What the fuck does ‘Oh’ mean. . .?”
72 Philip Dunn
Weill. 27) meaty
“You don’t know what you bloody mean do you. . . you
haven’t the least idea what you mean . . . do you think that
maybe, just maybe there might be some connection between
the robbery of the Chase Manhattan Bank and Mr. Peter Kier-
ney . . . Weekold . . . the guy who travels with our most
illustrious criminal organization . . . maybe? Who else would
think of heisting a fucking bank by taking it out of its slot,
lock, stock and fucking barrel.” He was mad. “It’s just like
them . . . just like Pinball. They come on to my patch and
they whip a fucking bank from under my very nose . . . who
else would try such a trick . . . who else?”
He paused, his chin stuck out and a frown etched itself
deeply into that sagging, tough old face.
“But why . . . that’s what I want to know . . . why should
they bother with bank robberies . . . it’s out of Weekold’s class
for sure . . .” He paced.
“What about Jabber, sir?”
“Don’t be bloody ridiculous, have you ever heard Jabber
snicker a word against the Cabal . . . that’s why he’s still in
one piece, that and his stooge. ..no, we need a poorer stoolie
. . just a minute . . .” Dutch stopped in his tracks and stubbed
out a fag. “Just hold on . . .” He sat down. “Go get Hooky,
get him in right away, carry him in if you have to. He said »
something about Vandal being out of town a couple of hours
ago... you’ll find him dossing in the usual place...” :
Two hours later a small dishevelled sack of potatoes was
shuffled into Dutch’s office. It slouched into a chair and fell
asleep. :
“Wake him up.” Sergeant O’Connor nudged Hooky.
“Eh? What? Where the hell...?” Hooky surfaced for a
moment, glanced bleary-eyed and dark at Dutch and dozed off
again. ;
“Tch...come on, you daft little bugger, wake up... here...”
Dutch waved a high value bill under his nose. It worked
like a dose of salts.
“Ah, my dear Mr. Haarlem, I see you have need of me.”
“You’re bloody right I do, what was all that crap about
Vandal being out of town?”
“Vandal? Whom is Vandal?” |
“You know as well as I do who Vandal is...don’t play
 THE CABAL 73
_ Silly games with me... or I'll cut you off for good and leak
you to the Thin-Men.”
“Ah, yes, well, as you put it that way I do seem to remember
vaguely something about seeing a Vandal... mind you it
wasn’t I who saw him, of course, this came to me down the
alley you know... you understand that I don’t make a habit
of passing on pieces of gossip, especially in relation to char-
acters with names like Vandal and in particular as I don’t know
the fellow from Adam anyway. .I mean what would I know
about a guy named...?”
“Shut up, Hooky, and get to the point, where was Vandal
seen and when?”
“Outer Suburb sector a/3... apartment 12, block Argen-
tina.”
“What condition was he in?”
“Been there a day, hiding out I’m told... kicked out of the
Cabal, they say, mind you, it is hearsay. The rest of them want
him. . . alive .. . I don’t know what for.”
“Are you bloody sure about that?” Dutch took Hooky by
the collar.
“I may be a pigeon in your bloody battery of birds, Inspector
Haarlem, but I’m not a bloody idiot .. . how long do you think
I'd last if I told you everything I heard.”
“Hm ...so... Vandal’s been a bad boy has he. . .
O.K., you can go.”
“The money?” Dutch handed over the reward.
“Keep your ears open, Hooky, if you can find out what’s
behind this lot it’s worth a grand.”
“No, Mr. Haarlem, it ain’t worth even ten grand... not
with the Cabal. ..even if I knew.” He left.
“Any reports of them hanging around the Sperm banks?”
Dutch asked.
“No...the guy we had lined up to help us didn’t come
round with the goods. Someone shut him up.”
“With Chase Manhattan money no doubt.” Dutch cursed
under his breath. He hated being outflanked.
“Why are they shutting everything down. They’ve robbed
the bank, that was bait for a bigger catch and what’s Vandal
up to?”
2 “Maybe he’s got something the Cabal don’t know about,”
Sergeant O’Connor suggested.
74 Philip Dunn

“Well, well, Sergeant, what came over you.. . that’s the

best idea you’ve come up with in years. . . maybe indeed, but
what? If Pinball went to Jabber like they say he did, Jabber
must have tipped the snoop on Vandal. So Vandal breaks loose
and skids out of town. So, the Cabal can’t get at him, they’ve
got the money to shut down the ‘alleys’ so what do they do
now? They go for Vandal to find out if what he’s hiding is
going to cock up their fat plan. I wonder exactly what he has
got...that’s the ten million four hundred and seventy two
thousand dollar question.”
“The what?”
“Oh shut up,” Dutch mumbled. “You’d better go and pull
Vandal out. Tell him it’s friendly and treat him well, no scuff-
ing and keep your ‘trap units’ under your belts. They make
him nervous.” =
“Yes, sir.”

At 15:00 hours that same day two ground cars, unfamiliar in

the regions of Outer Suburbia drew up at the side of block
“Argentina”. One stopped on one side and one on the other.
The two groups left their cars and made their way around the
building. Dutch’s men took the ‘front entrance and Pinball’s
the rear, as you might expect. Pinball sent Faction up on a jet
pack to the roof. Weekold made his way up the emergency
elevator, Roatax remained at the bottom and Pinball took the
main elevator.
Beside him, putting out a heavy hand to touch the elevator
button was a doffer and there was another behind him. Pinball
did not flinch, indeed he extended his arm also and touched
the control. The elevator doors opened and all three entered.
Pinball stood behind the doffers, much to their discomfort.
They knew well who he was but Dutch had deprived them of
their trap-units and neither much fancied a scrap with Pinball
in or out of the elevator. They were after all only two.
Pinball, for his part, didn’t much like having smelly doffers
in the same elevator of the same apartment block as the entire
Cabal. He decided there was just a chance they would get out
at a different floor, but when one of them. pressed for the
correct floor for apartment 12 Pinball decided something would
have to be done. At the appropriate floor the doors opened.
?
 THE CABAL 75
Pinball stepped out, looked down the corridor, left then right.
He stepped back in again and picked up one of the slumped
doffers, propping him in the elevator door entrance. The other
was deposited at the opposite side.
“Even doffers have their uses,” he muttered.
He made for the entrance to apartment 12. “Trust Vandal
to pick the luxury pad.” Then he stopped. The familiar sound
of helo-jet blades could be heard overhead.
“Sod them.” Pinball should have guessed that Dutch would
not be content to send just two doffers to pick up Vandal.
He pulled out a transceiver.
“Roatax . . . can you hear me... ?”
“Yes, I hear you, what to do about the whirly bird?”
“You got that bank blaster still?”
“I read you... give me five seconds and use the noise.”
“Make sure you don’t miss...”
“You kidding?”
Pinball positioned himself outside the apartment. He could
hear faint movement inside as he awaited the sound of boiled
doffer. ‘There was an horrendous explosion outside and the
action started. Sadly the noise came from below and not above.
If Roatax had hit the jet it would have exploded in the air, not
on the ground. So what had been hit? There was a loud scream-
ing followed by a crashing blast and Pinball saw the jet plummet .
past the window going down... fast.
She’d hit it, but too damn late, there’d be reinforcements
on the way by now.
All in the split second that the noise happened Vandal came
bursting from the apartment like a bull through a gate.
“Fuck,” he cursed as he saw Pinball. Without a moment’s
hesitation he leaped into the air and kicked out with a snappy
pair of leather boots, catching Pinball at the center of his
forehead. The giant went over, polaxed. He had been caught
off guard and he hit the ground with a crash. Vandal did not
wait to see the result of his hit but made for the stairwell and
ran up three at a time. In his hand was a small transmitter
which he tuned as he went. He spoke into it witha quick series
of orders. At the top of the building he slid out of the exit,
knowing that at least one of the Cabal would be up there and
he had a pretty shrewd idea which one. Faction was always
76 Philip Dunn =

used as the door stop. You had to be pretty thin to get past
him. They skirted one another warily. Faction was ten times
stronger, fifty times more experienced as a wrestler and bloody
terrified. He knew Vandal of old.
He has passed Pinball and that meant he wasn’t going to
make it easy for Faction. He rushed him, but instead of hitting
Faction from the front he slid round the back, came up behind
before the heavyweight had time to turn and rain a hundred
blows on his neck. Faction twisted round but Vandal was mov-
ing again and a dreadful double-fisted blow brought him to his
knees. Vandal delivered a high kick to the back of his head
and brought a fist round to the side, knocking him unconscious.
“Two down, two to go,” he muttered. But there were more
than two. Overhead came three doffer helo-jets, hovering into
view above the building. Behind them was another flying-ma-
chine. This one was a lot smaller and faster and it wasn’t a
doffer-craft.
All this time Roatax watched from below, through the sights
of the blaster. The doffers spattered away at the top of the
building and the other jet nipped in and out, trying to find a
space to pick Vandal up. It soared high above the doffer-craft,
lighter and more agile, and managed to ground one of them
in flames. The machine twisted in mid-flight, about to launch
another attack on the roof and then stopped, scrambling to
escape the inevitable, crashing down.
By now Weekold had reached the scene. He peeked out of |
the exit and saw Vandal about thirty meters away. He was
crouched in the only safe part of the roof space, behind an air
intake. The smaller jet finally managed to knock the last doffer-
craft out and swooped down to land. Vandal moved with his
accustomed dexterity towards it and Weekold stepped out.
“Stop,” he cried, levelling his own weapon, a double-bar-
relled scat gun—a small compact killer with over and under
barrels. It fired a single lethal needle on the end of a hair-thin
copper wire. Its maximum range was forty meters and its ac-
curacy over that distance legendary, especially in Weekold’s
hands. On impact the needle was always fatal for it mattered
not where it hit. The head. of the needle exploded and sank
about six inches into the flesh. It set off an electric charge ~
around 60,000 volts, and the victim had no hope.
 THE CaBAL 77
“Weekold.” Vandal stopped in his tracks. The helo-jet wav-
ered just before touching down. Both Vandal and the pilot
knew that there were two needles in that scat-gun and both
could kill within seconds of one another. The gun was trained
on Vandal’s chest but a flick of the wrist and the first shot
would hit the pilot who had no door for protection on his
machine.
Above the purr of the rotor blades Vandal shouted, “Week-
old, let me go. You don’t understand what you’re playing with.
This isn’t a game of cops and robbers.”
“What is it then, Vandal... tell me?”
“T can’t.”
“Then Pll kill you.”
“No! You mustn’t. . . you can’t, that would ruin everything,
ruin all our plans.”
“All our plans? It seems you’ve done that already as far as
we’re concerned.”
“No... I haven’t, in fact there is a way you could do better.”
“Oh?” Weekold was very cool for once.
“Yes .. . let me go and... . and I’ll come back and. . .
we’ll take you all in on the deal.”
““We’, Vandal? Who are ‘we’?” Weekold wisely moved
the scat-gun back and forth from the copter pilot to Vandal.
The copter pilot sweated, holding the delicate and complex jet
at the same spot, waiting for some decision, or some slip,
anything to grab Vandal and do the job he had been sent to
do.
“I can’t tell you that, Weekold.” Weekold levelled the gun
with greater determination on Vandal’s body.
“Then you wait here and the copter goes.”
aesut se.
~ “Do as I say, send the copter away and stand your ground.
You know how I can use this thing.”
Vandal hesitated hopelessly, looking towards the copter
buzzing away his freedom. At that moment the pilot finally
lost his cool. He reached over the side of the panel in front of
him and grabbed for a blaster tucked beneath the glove pocket.
Weekold’s response was remarkable. The muzzle of the gun
flashed slightly without sound and the needle spat at three
hundred kilometers a minute across the gap. It jabbed into the
 —

78 Philip Dunn

shoulder of the pilot and exploded. In the instant between the

explosion and the electrical charge the Thin-Man let out a
desperate screech of pain, more for what he knew was coming
than what had already been. His body jerked once, sending the
joy-stick in his hands wildly out of sinc. He “slowed” for an
instant, his shoulder blackened and his head was pitched side-
ways with such dreadful force that the impact smashed the
plastic reinforced wall of the cockpit.
He was dead, but the computer in the copter’s engines took
control and with gentle ease landed the machine beside Vandal,
turned off the rotor blades and switched off power.
Vandal blinked, looking at the scat-gun, without a trick left
in his body.
“Right, now perhaps we can come down to Earth for a
moment.”
The comment was more apt than Weekold could possibly
know.

AO
HIesE
 CHAPTER ELEVEN

The Bridges of Grief

Farrago sat alone in his stark rooms. The Calmalese had been
in space now for half their journey time. Soon they would
reach the Bridges of Grief, the grim Bridges warned of by their
fathers and feared by the Clock Men.
Farrago suffered their droning reiterations, day in and day
out until his head spun. They prepared for the disaster to come.
All through history this journey was foretold but alongside it
came the dark warnings of the Bridges that spanned a million
globes across their path.
Farrago’s view was cynical. He did not expect to be faced
by any bridges but he was not stupid enough to doubt the words
of superstition. There was something out there, no doubt.
“Grand Marshal, application for audience.” The words
sounded through the audio by his arm.
“Yes Donya, come in.” Donya entered and stood opposite
his chief. His face was pale.
“What is it?” Farrago asked. .
“There have been sightings, the Clock Men have ceased
their droning, they gather on the deck.”
_“What do you see, Donya?”
79
 ~~

80 . Philip Dunn
“The Bridges, Marshal... you had better come.”
Farrago rose and made his way to the elevator shafts. The
ship was built for rapid internal transport and the elevator took
them swiftly to the deck.
The Clock Men had begun a new chant now, and all were
gathered about the huge screen covering the wall.
Farrago could see the faintly visible line across the screen.
“Can you bring it closer?” Farrago asked of his “Lanyard.”
“No, that is maximum magnification, though within a few
moments we will be within a parsec.”
“Tis the Bridges of Grief,” mumbled one of the Clock Men
beside him.
“No doubt.” Farrago answered, a trifle irreverently.
“There is no doubt, Grand Marshal, no doubt whatever,”
came the emphatic reply.
Farrago turned to the communications officer who sat before
the screen.
“Can you get any bounce off it?”
“Yes, Grand Marshal. ..the readings show a solid object
that spans some eighteen trackable parsecs across space directly
in our path. It criss-crosses through four parsecs from top of
screen to bottom but the readings fade on the lateral scale. I
would not be able to estimate its length to us.”
“Ts it static?”
“In the last fourteen minutes since sightings were begun it
has shifted over three million kilometers, two million four
hundred thousand vertically to us and back six hundred thou-
sand. It still moves downwards to us. A bit like a gigantic
whiplash .. . in. . . well in a wind.”
“I thought you were a science officer.” Farrago smiled at
the Calmalese. “Does it show any surrounding force?”
“Yes, Grand Marshal, the trackable force extends to our
limits.”
“I see.” Farrago watched as the image grew slowly closer.
“What’s our space speed?” he asked.
“Three PPS, Marshal. In 32 seconds we will be three parsecs
distant, in 54.75 we’ll be on top of it.”
“O.K. take us to a negotiable distance and relay all craft
to spread wings behind us. Donya, I want space gear for you
and me only. We’ll take a landing-craft across the rest and see

or
Pr
 THE CABAL 81
what this is all about.” The 54 seconds passed before they had
turned to leave the chamber. :
Now they could see. Now it was right up close and the
silence within the view deck was complete.
Their approach had brought them at a slight angle to the
Bridges, for bridges they were. Each one spanned a million
kilometers across space from one globe to another. Each globe
lay within the grasp of a giant figure, standing, legs apart,
across the surface, its hands stretched up, carrying the head
-of a castle through which ran the bridge itself. They were made
from stone slabs, symmetrically moulded. From base to top
each bridge measured 100,000 meters and the figures were six
times that.
Each figure was resplendent, heavily carved and armored,
built from a moulded stone. Each carried a massive sword and
shield, the sword across the hands and the shield slung over
the groin. Myriads of stone steps ran from each part of the
bridge over the globe surface, climbing up from the feet of the
giant to his head. At the top were more carvings and a road
that continued away out of their view, winding back and forth
through space forever.
“Readings please.”
“Solid, Marshal, a form of granite stone surrounded by a
wide porous force field that is deteriorating at points. It would
be possible to pass through in a small craft with difficulty.
Certainly a couple of. . .er Marshals could get through without
trouble.” .
“O.K. let’s go, Lanyard.” They left the deck and made for
the elevator.
“How do we handle this, Donya?”
“Handle it, Marshal?” Donya turned to Farrago, it was not
-his way to seek advice.
“Yes, how do we handle the Clock Men, how are we to get
round their superstition?”
“I presume, Marshal, that you have already established that
we are able to get round the Bridges.”
“I can’t be certain that we will get anywhere, but either we
do or we go back. In any event we have some free time now
. to think on our fates, Donya.”
“Free time, Marshal?”
 ‘
82 Philip Dunn
4

“Why so dumb? I’m looking forward to this little outing,

an ancient monument built by a civilization of enormous ad-
vance. It is a very beautiful sight, even viewed through a
screen. Can you imagine what it will be like to walk along its
roads, Donya? A pleasant rest from piloting a space launch,
don’t you think?” Donya followed, puzzled.
They took the small transporter to the edge of the force field
and stopped.
“Take us up to the top and nearest to one of the weakening
skins. I want to get into the Bridge right away.”
They lifted and stopped. The craft was directly opposite the
face of the immense statue.
“TIsn’t he magnificent?” Farrago spoke softly.
“He is very big,” replied Donya.
“Come, get your suit on, let’s take a closer look.”
They left the craft and jetted across the few kilometers to
the disintegrated patch of force. Farrago floated through, feel-
ing nothing of the surrounding atomic power that had once
prevented entry.
“Tt is long dead, Grand Marshal,” Donya commented.
“Tt would take a force field like this one a million years to
disintegrate...a million years, Donya, does that mean any-
thing?”
“No, should it, Marshal?”
“A million years is the time we have been on Calm. A
million years is the time since our fathers left the ‘First
World’.”
“You mean this could be part of it?”
“Why not? So much secrecy about the world they left. So
much superstition about the Bridges of Grief. Maybe the two
connect and the Clock Men are not telling.”
“Why should they not tell?”
“Because religion relies upon ignorance.”
Donya remained silent as they approached closer, hovering
over the edge of the parapet at the top most point.
“Then why do they let us go?”
“Because they probably imagine we will not return. Or they
intend to kill us out here.”
But
“We'd be no great loss to them, Donya. . . it would confirm
 THE CABAL 83
the mystique around the Bridges and the power of the Clock
Men. The computers aboard the ships would fathom a way
through eventually and we would be left to rot. Nothing lost
and a great deal gained. By the time they reached Earth the
Clock Men would be firmly in control.”
“You mean they would sacrifice your life just to promote
the Faith?”
“Don’t fool yourself, we are dispensable, their faith is their
power. The odds are set against us. Unless...”
“Unless what?”
“Unless we can dismiss the superstition by returning in one
piece.”
“And take their power?” Donya was stunned at the idea.
He had known of the Clock Men and their ancient religions
for the whole of his life. The Bridges were part of the teachings,
a gospel for all time.
“This is as good a time as any. The best in fact. Start a
new life on Earth. Get rid of the mumbo-jumbo and carry
supreme power on the shoulders of logic and science. Kick
them out.”
They both floated down to settle tentatively on the road at
the top of the Bridges. Farrago turned and looked along the
astonishing length of curving surface. It was uninterrupted,
flat, but for a few small pits in the ground, and went on before
them forever. The surrounding turrets were mountainous, their
surfaces clung with a rich layer of dust, wrapped round with
the force of straying magnetism that had drifted undisturbed
there for a million years. As they both walked, tip-toeing across
the infinite pathway, the layers of calm dust beneath their feet
lifted like graceful dancers. Slowly, and with accomplished
skill, it twisted and spun around them into so great a variety
of patterns that Farrago stopped and put out his hand to Donya.
“Watch,” he said, and the sudden ceasing of movement that
had initiated one display, began another. There were stray and
unidentified shafts of light that reflected from unseen sources
on to the sides of the Bridges and down, splintering through
the murk, exploding on to the ground in pools and points. The
rising pirouette of dust danced through the light in a fine craze
of radiance and out, an outstretched arm of particles feeling
the darkness.
 84 Philip Dunn
Farrago felt a passion for this faulted domain. He wished
to cling to it, to stay. He held the fantastic age of it in his head
and sampled the ghosts it housed. Suddenly, it became. dark,
so dark that the pall confused their brains. Neither knew which
direction to take and which way round they stood for there
were no compass bearings, no north or south and their passage
was laid out endlessly before and behind them. But there had
been light then, now there was unprecedented dark and they
could not even see one another. It was an unnatural and per-
plexing darkness that made them yearn to find a lighted win-
_dow, to press their faces against the glass and see out into
light. But there was no exit visible.
It was as though the Bridges had been swathed in bandage,
layer after layer until the air and all light was blocked out. And
then it lifted, moistened with a delicate, weak light that crept
about the ground and cast shadows again. Farrago and Donya
animated from the frozen statues they had become and their
shadows moved beside them, taking the road from the bridge
and stepping round the small holes that had rotted with time’s
deterioration. Moving across their bodies from left to right the
shadows slipped over the edges of the bridge, followed for a
_ while at their heels and then drifted past them. And then it
grew to a giant, sliding up a raised wall as they passed, rising
to four meters and without a murmur dropping to a short stub,
malformed and cowered before them. They reached the en-
closed portion of bridge and the shadows’ journey was ended
for the moment.
But not Farrago’s or Donya’s, for they had far to go yet.
Donya stopped at the side of a wall and looked closer.
“Marshal, here, here is your proof, here’s the past.”
He stood back as Farrago approached. They floated slightly
as the artificial gravity set up by the force field faltered.
“We oppose, we depose, we impose. The words of the
fathers, we oppose, we depose, we impose. I was right. . . this
is the place of the Calmalese. .
There was a sharp crack above them and a beam of light
dug a deep hole in the ground by Farrago’ s feet. The hole was
Donya’s grave. His crumpled body lay in it, charred and bro-
ken. Farrago leaped to one side, avoiding the second blast. “You
should have taken me first . . . fools . . .” He turned with the
heavy weapon from his belt already spurting. Two guards”
 THE CABAL 85

“standing at the top of the turrets disrupted, exploding into their

surroundings. The third, already terrified of the Grand Marshal,
dropped his weapon and died for his trouble. Farrago was not
given to easy mercy. Four more guards lifted from the next
turret along and dashed down towards him.
“So... your orders are clear—Then you will all die, and
the Clock Men with you...” Farrago touched the jet button
on his arm and dashed into the air. The muzzle of his gun
burned hot again and one of the guards continued his descent,
the rockets carrying his limp body out of control and crashing
to the ground. The next two that stepped before him lost their
weapons in a single shot and the third ran into the swerving
pair as they tried to save their lives.
Farrago moved in and stabbed one in the eye with the needle
thin blade of his dagger. The next he beheaded, dropping the
knife and unsheathing his deadly jag-sword. The last aggressor
wavered before him, his weapon still in his hand, but quite
useless against the Grand Marshal. Farrago thrust the long
blade into the Calmalese’s stomach and pulled. The jagged
side blades that gave the weapon its dreadful name ripped the
soldier’s guts from his still living body. For this was the soldier
who had killed Donya.
“You may suffer that for so long as you will, soldier, for
I will not help you die.” Farrago departed the place of battle
and returned to the body of his Lanyard. He picked the crum-
pled form into his great arms and carried him to the upper
turrets where the attacking soldiers had come. At the top-most
window he entered and set Donya down upon the dusty floor.
The inside of the castle, at least in this part, had never been
occupied. The walls were stark and untouched. Even after a
million years there would still have been some evidence of
life. Some markings or graffiti, preserved under the force ©
fields.
“There is a wind,” Farrago said, his eyebrows knitted. He
looked out through the window from where he could see the
great ships of Calm. They stretched away from him, four mil-
lion of them, all in perfect alignment, spreading wings in ar-
rowed formation, his own “Calm-Earth” at the front. They
looked small; he felt tiny, but greater.
The magnitude of the Bridges of Grief had given him a
great confidence, an inspiration that seemed then to be limit-
 4 ¥

86 Philip Dunn :

less. He would be the first to kill the old religions that the
Clock Men hoped to take to Earth. He would be the one to
start the Calmalese on the mighty track of his fathers; the men
who had built these magnificent bridges.
“The Winds of Grief are good winds.” He turned his face
to the small delicate gusts that slid down the Bridge’s long
roads. The movement of the spanning roads up and down —
through space set up tiny eddies that scattered about him. He
turned to Donya’s body.
“Here is your place, Lanyard. . . bear witness that the power
of the Calmalese now lies in my hands, wrested from the Clock
Men. ..and it began here, in the place of your fathers.”
Farrago took his jag sword, still splattered with the blood
of Donya’s killer, and laid it full length upon his outstretched
body.
“Watch and guard this place, my trusted friend... it may
last longer with your ghost to walk its parapets.”
One day that sword would lay upon the ground, dropped
through the gradual diseverence of his bones. Upon that day
Farrago would begin a different life. But what kind of life?
Would he live to lead his people on Earth or would he return
here to this lost and pitiless place to stand before his sword
lain alone upon the ground among the dust of the dead hero?
Farrago turned swiftly and left the Bridges, back to his ship
and the dustier eyes of the Clock Men.

Liba
ai
 CHAPTER TWELVE

“...Heigh-Ho, The Holly.”

Roatax had been busy and the result was a fresh ground car.
It replaced the crushed wreck, smashed by one blast from the
guns of the dead doffer’s helo-jet.
“Be our guest, Vandal . . . we plan a short ride out of town.”
_ Weekold closed the door after Vandal’s crouched form as
he slid across the seat beside a sore-headed Pinball. Faction
set the controls of the small computer-drive operative and they
moved off.
Two hundred kilometers and one hour of total silence and
the vehicle drew into the front of a house. This was yet another
of Pinball’s many dwellings, filled with one sad wife, rattling
like a nail in a tin.
Vandal. was bundled unceremoniously out of the car and
through the front door to the impolite gestures of Mrs Coca
the fifth.
“What the hell is this, Pinball... who are these people?”
“Friends, my sweet one, great old friends, come to spend
a few quiet hours.”
“God help us both, the one time I get to see your bald head
you bring a dozen other scruffy-necked hoboes, what a bunch
if ever I did see one.”
ey ; 87
88 Philip Dunn -
“Four, my love.”
“Four what?” Vandal was swept past the clasped and irri-
tated hands at the door.
“Only four others...”
“What on Earth are you on about... who cares how many
there are... you’ve got the bloody nerve to come here without
a single word of warning with a bunch of nuts I’ve never seen
in my life before carting some half-witted alien into my front
hall.”
Weekold looked at Mrs Coca.
“Alien?” he asked suspiciously.
“What?” she replied.
“You said alien.”
“Oh, did I? So what has that to do with the price of eggs
. . . you are one of the ‘friends’ I presume . . . qualified as
such to let yourself into MY house.”
“The price of what?” Weekold did not recognize the idiom. |
“Idiot.” Mrs Coca was not one to mince her words.
“Calm your wife, Pinball, I’d love a bite to eat, I haven’t
seen the inside of a bread loaf for a day.”
“Well, well, well, you’ve got a bloody nerve... it’s food _
you want now is it? Oh well, of course, you might perhaps
like Turkish food, French or Greek? Perhaps a Balbanese set-
ting would be more to your taste, I could manage that one in
five courses, the others I’m afraid would be restricted to...”
“Shut up, Alma,” Pinball yelled.
“I’m not fucking Alma, you ugly bastard, I’ll kill you, I’ll
kill you...” She took up a great pottery dish that had hung on
the wall, and hefted it at Pinball. At full thrust she let go and
the great projectile, which weighed in at 25 kilos, sailed over
Pinball’s ducking head and crashed against the wall, smashing
into a thousand pieces.
She burst out crying, sobbing as though her heart was bro-
ken. Pinball ventured towards her, not unaccustomed to other,
similar performances. She jerked from his arms at first and
then settled slowly for a moment’s comfort from a man she
yearned for all the time.
“We don’t need you for a while, Pinball, you’d better patch
up the cracks...” Pinball nodded, his eyebrows suddenly fur-
rowed, a certain heavyness in his manner. He led Mrs Coca
 THE CABAL 89

the fifth towards the bedroom. Strangely, though he would

invariably forget the names of his wives, he would rarely mislay
the bedroom.
In a room adjoining, matters of no less gravity began.
Vandal sat down on an upright chair provided for him. He
was surrounded by his interrogators but calm now, resolved
not to cause himself further discomfort.
Weekold took command.
“Well, Vandal, is there some simple explanation or do we
have a long night ahead of us?”
“Difficult, Weekold, very difficult.”
“Oh dear.” Roatax turned away, looking for the drink’s
dispenser. She found it and pressed for a malt whisky as Week-
old continued.
“How long have you been ‘involved’ elsewhere?” He em-
phasized the euphemism.
“Hard to say, really, I suppose, on and off, since I met the
Clock Man for the first time.”
“The Clock Man, damn it, I might have guessed there was
something seedy about that connection.”
“Tt’s in his nature,” Roatax spoke between swigs.
“What?” asked Weekold.
“Tt’s Vandal’s nature to be devious . - get the most out of
a situation, you might even call it a quality.”
“T don’ t call it a quality, look what a bloody mess it’s got
us into.’
“How old are you, Vandal?” Roatax turned to the small
figure, slouching somewhat in his chair.
“Too old to mention.”
“To be honest with you, Vandal, we really don’t relish all
this nonsense. On the other hand the idea of bloodletting on
Pinball’s carpet is not to our taste either. If you would be kind
enough to make it easy for us I’m sure the whole thing could
be done with in a few short moments.”
“And then what happens to me?”
“Well, you came to Earth by some means or other, we
would have no major objection to you leaving by a similar
‘route. It would seem to be a pity to curtail that long life
now...”
~~. Vandal laughed sourly.
 b -*
90 Philip Dunn '
“On the other hand, we could, I suppose, take the view that
you have had a long and sometimes good life no doubt and
therefore not feel too guilty at putting an end to it.” Weekold
added this with true sincerity for he felt the pang of broken
loyalty.
“Tt is not death at your hands that I fear, Weekold.”
“Oh? Whose then?”
Vandal sat very quietly. His gently logical mind worked
over the possible moves available to him. He knew for sure
that he would not escape from this house alive and that should
he choose to risk his life in the cause of the Calmalese he
would not be thanked for he was not Calmalese himself, but
a free agent prepared to work for the highest bidder; a mer-
cenary with his own life to care for alone. Why chuck it away
when there was another way?
If, however, he were to spill the beans there were two other
chances. On one hand the Cabal might decide to use the in-
formation to their advantage and tell the story to the Earth
authorities. In this case he would die at the hands of Farrago.
That would destroy the whole shooting match. Earth would
suffer terrible losses at the hands of the aggressors and the
Calmalese would never succeed against a concerted attack. The
other possibility was to try and persuade the company about
him to come in with the enemy. This was a tricky proposition
at its best for even in confirmed crooks there might be a strong
hint of patriotism. Unless he played the Calmalese up and made
them out to be really tough; giving Earth little chance. Then
maybe they might...
“Tell me something, Weekold, what exactly do you most
want for the Cabal?”
“Want? You know damn well what I want. Immunity from
criminal action and plenty of dough.”
“Yes, that’s what I thought.”
“T suppose you can grant that?”
“Perhaps.”
They laughed, nervously. No one knew Vandal well enouEy
to presume anything impossible.
“How?”
/
“You would have to join my side.”
“What side is that?” Faction asked.

lai
ehi
 THE CABAL 91
“The Calmalese forces.”
“Who the bloody hell are the Calmalese forces... Ihope
you’re not just making up some stupid story, Vandal, because
I'd as soon blow your head off as listen to any more.” Weekold
grew impatient.
“The Calmalese are a race who, at this very moment, are
just two weeks away from Earth in four million spacecraft. On
July 4th, at 12:00 noon, precisely, they will land on Earth and
- take over the entire planet. There will be a minimum of killing
and as little damage done to property as possible.”
“My God,” Roatax exclaimed.
“For some time now...” Vandal continued, “‘... there has
been a steady flux of alien visitors, like the Thin-Men and
others. They have all come unofficially. Some stay, some go
back where they came from. Now we are to get the big visit,
the invaders. The Calmalese are very strong, very advanced,
very warlike and they come from a land diametrically opposed
to Earth. Calm is bleak and as tough as you like. It has inbred
a genuine hatred of their own land and a powerful desire to
get off it!” There was silence.
“You are kidding of course?” Weekold gestured with his
lean hand at Vandal.
“Nope.”
“I mean the idea of aliens on Earth is one thing, I mean no
one actually thinks much about it, but an invasion, that’s bloody
ridiculous ...that happens in strip cartoons, not on Earth,
now... it can’t.”
“Tt can and it will.”
“You’re a fucking spoof, Vandal, this is some kind of crazy
joke ...maybe you’ve been taken in too.”
“We'd better get Pinball...” Roatax suggested.
“What the hell do you suppose he’s going to do about it,
put up a hand and stop the waves?” Weekold never liked being-
replaced by Pinball.
“No, but we need the whole group here for something like
this.”
“You don’t mean to tell me you believe him?”
“Why would he lie?”
“To dupe us into letting him drag the whole lot of us to
some dingy back water and then do a bunk that’s why?”
92 Philip Dunn
“J don’t know,” Roatax shrugged.
“What do you think, Faction?”
Faction puffed out some air and blinked.
“Well, they have had all this stuff about ‘enigmatic’ pop-
ulous, there’ve been little bits of newspaper talk now and again.
If there are aliens on Earth it follows there must be more in
other places... it’s perfectly logical that sooner or later some
group or other is going to up sticks and look around for another
home.”
“Yes, but for God’s sake, why here?”
“Why not? We’fe a perfect target... too few people, too
many resources, rich cultivated land, more than enough to go
around. How many of these Calmalese did you say were headed.
this way?”
“Ten million.”
“That’s a lot of aliens,” Weekold commented.
“There are 300,000,000 people on Earth, ten million
wouldn’t be too hard to lose.”
“Yeh, but according to our own pet alien here they don’t
plan to get lost, they plan to take over.”
“And if we’re not expecting them they’ll probably succeed,”
Roatax pointed out.
“Especially on bloody Carnival day,” said Weekold.
“With a fake invasion to confuse the issue further.”
“Go get Pinball,” concluded Weekold.
Roatax left the room and returned a moment or two later
with a bedraggled Pinball. It took all of five minutes to relate
the tale as he sat silently listening. His spirits were sapped
after Mrs Coca’s concerted efforts and this didn’t improve
matters.
“Wow,” he said, finally.
“Hm, that’s roughly what we thought.” Weekold sat down, —
taking a drink poured by Roatax.
“Makes our little bit of fun games in the Sperm Reserve
look a bit silly, doesn’t it?” Pinball said.
“Not at all... if we take that over, we’ve got a bribe against
both parties...” Vandal said. 3
“How do you work that out?” Weekold swallowed his drink
quickly and then rose for more.
“Tf we can take the building over we can hold it to ransom |
against the World Government if they win and if the Calmalese ©
 THE CABAL ; 93
- win we can threaten to use the sperm to people the planet more
effectively.”
“We'd need more than that. .. valiant attempt, Vandal. But
all this ‘we’ bit doesn’t ring true quite as it did, now does it?”
“They want you to take over the Sperm Reserve,” Vandal
commented.
On?
“They want commotion, as much as possible... the more
trouble the better. The Thin-Men will be hard at work robbing
and looting and generally keeping the doffers busy and this
was to be our bit.”
“I see,” Pinball said little but thought a lot.
There was silence once again.
“I suppose there isn’t much chance they might not make it
here or something like that?” he asked.
“None,” Vandal lied.
“Or that they’ll fail once they arrive?”
“Not a lot.”
“But some?”
“Well, if the theory is correct and the crime rate is high
- enough to keep the doffers happy, the armed forces will be
cavorting around like half-witted actors after their fake inva-
sion, there won’t be much to stop the real thing.”
“What if we decided to join you?” Pinball asked. -
“Tt would not be a matter of that, Pinball; but whether we
decided that you should be allowed to join us. We do not need
you.”
“No, maybe, but we could make it very uncomfortable for
their arrival. Could we not? I suggest you cannot afford to do
without us.”
Vandal had happily maneuvered Pinball into persuading
himself that joining the opposition was the only alternative.
“That is true.”
“Tf, I say, if we choose to do so.”
Vandal had failed to maneuver Pinball anywhere.
“T see, so there is some doubt that you would wish to?”
“Certainly. How are we to know we won’t simply be dis-
posed of after the event?”
“There’s no desire to slaughter anyone, they’re not bent on
slaughter.”
“I’m sorry but I find that extremely hard to believe. Why
94 Philip Dunn
should they want 300 million humans half filling a planet they
have conquered? I suggest they intend to kill off the lot as
quickly as possible. I would.”
“Not everyone thinks like you, Pinball.” Vandal felt a little
weak.
“No? Warriors of space who have lived on a stark planet
for a million years and hated every Goddamned minute of it?
People who are prepared to undertake a journey of millions of
light years across space. You mean to tell me that they have
done all this to land on Earth and shake us by the hand? “Hello |
how are you, nice to meet you Man, do you think you could
possibly move over a bit?’”
All eyes turned to Vandal.
“Don’t you see, Pinball, there are only 10 million of them.
They want room to live peacefully for the first time in their
history and we have room enough for ten lots of them. Earth
is underpopulated. Once the Government’s convinced of their
peaceful attempt they would negotiate...”
“For visas?” Roatax joked.
“Yes, in a fashion, for permission to mix. It has been hap-
pening unofficially for years. Everyone knows about the
E.N.A.’s. Everyone knows that enigmatic origin after the rec-
ords of about two million names on the TCID records means
alien. They’re not stupid but they don’t mow us down. Man
has lived on this planet forty times longer than the Calmalese
have on theirs. The Earth population has conquered its envi-
ronment and made it flourish, what harm could there be in
opening the doors to another race, officially.”
“You should have been a lawyer, Vandal, you’d have done
well. What I see is a very attractive and flourishing planet
here, and tough old aliens who want a soft number. We have
all, they have not.”
“There’s enough for everyone, Pinball. This is just the be- -
ginning of interplanetary mixing. It’s certain to happen. If we
make it work with the Calmalese, what a giant step for Man-
kind.”
“Hmm, the trouble with you bloody aliens is you don’t
know a cliché when you see one,” Weekold grumbled.
“I have always thought of you, Vandal, as entirely dishon-
est. I don’t think that I glow with any shining light but I’ve —
never imagined that anything you ever said was other than
z pe
ow
 THE CABAL 95
completely devious and so convoluted that, to anyone but your-
self, attempts at unravelling would be hopeless. Knowing this
as I do, I do not plan on believing a single word you have
uttered; but I don’t think we have a lot of choice. We have to
join you.”
“Why for God’s sake?” Weekold asked.
“If we tell the Government there really will be slaughter
because they’ll start blasting at the Calmalese as soon as they
see them. Four million spacecraft is too many to knock out of
the sky in one go, so a lot of them will land. They are warlike
people and, I bet, a lot more warlike than Vandal has given
"us to believe, so they'll fight back. Any race that’s powerful
enough to get across that distance is-powerful enough to blow
us to the wind on a whim.
“Alternatively, if no one knows they’re coming, except us,
there is just a chance that not too many people will die and
that somehow or other the Calmalese can be persuaded to act
peacefully. And we could act as mediators, provided we had
the lever to do so. Which would, let’s face it, not be to our
disadvantage.”
“You crafty old sod.” Roatax patted Pinball on the back.
He winced from the recent, more avid attacks in that area.
“What about it, folks?” ?
“Sounds good to me,” Faction said.
“T'll tell you one thing, Vandal. ..if this goes wrong be-
cause you’ve played silly fuckers with me Ill put Roatax on
to you.” ;
Vandal felt uncertain as to whether matters had quite gone
the way he had hoped.
“Now, what about the Clock Man? We’d better meet him,
don’t you think?”
“I will arrange it as soon as possible.” Vandal quaked at
the idea.
“No, Vandal, you will arrange it here and now. Presumably
the fellow has a telephone or some such?”
The conversation with the Clock Man took two minutes.
A place and time were settled and they departed Mrs Coca’s
home on somewhat better terms. She even smiled at Weekold.

One hundred and fifty kilometers away, by the light of a slowly

drifting dusk, three ominous Thin-Men slipped unobtrusively
96 Philip Dunn

into the grounds of a grand, palatial house. They walked non-

chalantly across the outer rim of grass meadows and to the
back of the building.
Using a simple tool they forced open a window and entered.
Inside, all was silent. After only a moment’s hesitation they
proceeded along a corridor with pictures and decorations on
one side and doors at regular intervals on the other. At the end
- of this they stopped to wait for a passing figure who did not
notice their presence but continued on her way. They turned
right and ascended two flights of soft-carpeted stairs. At the
top they turned right again and entered a long, prettily decorated
dormitory with small flower-painted beds ranged along both
walls.
Five beds along on their left they stopped. In absolute si-
lence one of the Thin-Men took out a small syringe and moved
to the side of the slumbering child. He applied the force spout
to her arm and touched the electronic button at the back. The
liquid atomised from the spout and entered her bloodstream
without puncturing the skin. She did not even move.
He returned the syringe to his pocket and pulled back the
covers of the bed, gently and with apparent care. He lifted the
small limp body, breathing lightly, from the bed and made his
way between the othér two Thin-Men from the dormitory. As
he passed a window along the corridor a shaft of light from
the sinking red sun fell upon the head of the child. The ray of
light was red but her hair was redder.

* * *

As the Cabal departed the Coca homestead Pinball pressed a

piece of paper into his wife’s hand. While they climbed into
the car she opened and read it, then turned to the door again
and shouted to Pinball...
“Stefan, you’ve forgotten something...”
“What?”
“A goodbye kiss...” She simpered in the doorway.
“Oh, God, you can’t want more... 7?” Pinball complained.
“One last bloody kiss or I'll phone the doffers...”
“Christ.” Pinball cursed and climbed out of the car again.
Once inside the house his tone changed.
 THE CABAL STi i
“Thanks. Perfect, you fat little hussy!” He pinched her bot-
tom.
“Never you mind, just close the door and don’t let anyone
in.” He moved to the video-phone and touched out a number
on the panel.
“Johan. . . this is Stefan Coca, can you talk?” Pinball craned
to check that all was well outside. “Listen, Johan, I need a
_ favor, you owe me I think . . . right... yes... . I wanta
launch standing by in case of emergency . . . never mind what
emergency, just make sure there’s one on the pad if I need it
. . . be,in about two weeks . . . to the moon more or less.
Give me enough fuel for a round trip and that’ll do it. . . yes
. . . keep it ready for at least a day before July 4th . . . no I’m
not having a space party again . . . I’ve got to go now...
somebody waiting . . . don’t be dirty . . . I'll repay, sure,
bye.” He cut contact, kissed his wife and left.
 CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Don’t Kick a Dog, Kick a Doffer

Dutch’s-den was an unhealthy place. Like all Police Inspectors,

the good ones that is, he was confined to a dingy little hole
on the uppermost floor of the shabbiest building in London.
He had similar dens in New York and Los Angeles between-
which he commuted regularly.
The London building had been standing, by one means or
another, for three hundred years. The paint was peeling, the
ceiling sagging, the floors were covered in unstubbed cigarettes
with black burn marks round them. Dutch’s desk was a similar
shambles; coated in files, tapes, film-strips and old dusty record
slips. Even the dust was dusty. A tree surgeon could have dated
the desk top by its layers and the ashtray had long since expired
under the labor of carrying a hundred stale butts. Cleaners
entered this trash-can of a room on pain of death and no self-
respecting doffer spent more than a minute with the door shut
for fear of asphyxiation. Dutch was in tune with his room;
sweaty, smelly and generally dishevelled. But when it came
to doffing criminals he was the best. There were none to equal
his speed, intuition ana contacts.
Stories were told of his amazing network of snouts scattered
98
 THE CABAL 99
across the globe like flies on a turd. A million, two million,
the numbers were bandied about, but for sure, Dutch could dig
out facts about the bad boys and girls of the world simply by
touching a control. His “grape vine”, or dried-out prune vine,
was so rapid and effective that crooks had been caught before
Dutch had cut contact with his stoolie. A much-feared man
among the underworld.
Today was June 23rd and a meeting had been summoned.
Such meetings always took place in Dutch’s office and for this
reason alone they were rare events. Most of the invited would
find an excuse not to be there or make some strenuous attempt
to get their chief into another locality for the meeting. Strong
men had been known to whimper at the prospect of five hours
there, or one, for that matter.
On this occasion Dutch had insisted both that all-comers
should be there on pain of suspension and that they should be
in his dung hole by 08:30 in the morning, without fail. There
were too many items relevant to the meeting that could not be
taken from his desk. :
Thus it was that one morning, 11 days before Independence
Day, the day of the Carnival, Dutch sat picking at the chair’s
tattered edges with one hand and his nose with the other while
four sergeants and three junior detectives filed into the room.
They sat opposite on the makeshift deck-chairs and stools,
specially imported for the gathering and pretended not to notice
the mess and various assortment of smells.
“Good, now...” Dutch opened. “We have a selection of
unexpected events to choose from and I think this will be a
most important briefing. I hope to establish a pattern with you
all... and I expect you to contribute some of the pieces.” The
fact that all the gathered company were suffering from severe
‘loss of brain power due to nausea did not seem to reduce
Dutch’s expectations.
“O.K. First we have information which tells that the Cabal
plan to break into the Sperm Reserve in New York. This was
picked up from a stoolie in Manhattan a day before I flew out
and met Vandal, by chance, walking in Times Square, which,
you will of course be aware, is the locality of the Sperm
Reserve. Secondly, a bank has been stolen.” At this point one
of the doffer sergeants was foolish enough to snigger. It
100 Philip Dunn
sounded like a snigger, though of course it could have been
a gasp for air, but Dutch didn’t laugh.
“Samuels, if you are having some trouble with your mouth
perhaps you would prefer to be downtown somewhere, I’m
sure we could find you a beat on Blind Alley.” Samuels went
without air from then on.
“IT repeat, secondly, a bank has been stolen, the Chase
Manhattan Bank, London, Oxford Street, to be precise. It was
removed from its normal habitat, seen, carried by expensive
and elaborate means, with the aid of the Thin-Men and found
thirty kilometers out of town, empty. A girl employee disap-
peared with it, though her body has not been found.
“We do not know who stole the bank, its contents or the
girl, but we have our suspicions .. .” The ranks shifted a little
and Dutch glowered across the desk. The shifting stopped.
“Thirdly, Vandal has pissed off. Why? Well, that brings me
to point number four. At the very same moment as the Interopol
agents are moving in to dig Vandal out who should come
along? Pinball and his trusty band of crooks. . . the Cabal.”
He paused for recognition and got none. Resistance was
low.
“We lost three jets in a fray which was not dominated by
the Cabal. From the last radio reports it would appear that all
of them were out of action or range. Some damage was done
to a ground car and Weekold was sighted just before the last
jet went down. He was fighting against both Vandal and another
unidentified jet which attacked our machines and seemed to
be aiding Vandal against all-comers.”
Dutch paused and lit another fag.
“At this point contact was lost with our boys and none of
them survived to report the events. But one thing is certain.
Vandal did not go with the other jet. This machine was found
undamaged with a dead pilot still aboard on top of the apartment
block. Any comment?” Silence rained upon their mouths.
“Bright lot aren’t you? O.K. Point five, the Thin-Man inside
the jet...I didn’t mention he was a Thin-Man... was killed
with a scat-gun. Now this weapon is seldom used nowadays
but it is regularly carried and used by Weekold, a crack shot.
Point six, a ground car was stolen from the environ of the
apartment block and the entire Cabal were sighted by various -
 . THE CABAL 101
of the contacts heading towards one of Pinball’s residences.
This place was watched and they remained there for the space
of three hours. Just before they left, keeping Vandal under
close guard, Pinball returned to the house on some pretext and
made a call to Bermuda private airport where he spoke with
an old buddy of his...one Johan Speck, a man well known
to us. Speck has more unproven crimes to his name than I can
count on a finger-lator. He owns six interspace launches all
of which are used for nefarious dealings at regular intervals.
We do not know the extent of Pinball’s conversation with Speck
but we can be sure that he plans a trip out of Earth limits and
by the way he organized the call does not want the rest of the
Cabal to know about it.” Dutch rested for a few seconds.
“Finally, the most extraordinary event of all, Faction’s
daughter, Holly, was kidnapped from the home where she has
lived since birth. No witnesses to the event.”
Dutch triumphantly cast the half-finished cigarette over his
shoulder like a chicken bone and leaned back on the chair. He
surveyed the thick bunch of numb-skulls before him without
incredulity and smiled inwardly. This was the best bit; the
conclusions. “Now, before you give me the benefit of the
various theories I’m sure you have developed as a result of all
these facts, I will give you mine.” He paused again, then
launched.
“The Caba! are planning a serious attack on the Sperm
Reserve in the city of New York with a view to diverting us
from some other much more substantial event.
_ “We know that Vandal is working against the Cabal, the
Cabal against the Thin-Men. Now, these two last factors have
been reinforced by two reciprocal events, namely... Weekold
kills a Thin-Man and we know what happens to people who
do that, and an item, a very much alive item, in the shape of
Holly Whinter, is kidnapped, I would suggest by the Thin-
Men. We all know, too, what Faction’s temper is like. Thus,
I ask myself a question which no doubt you all are asking
yourselves at this very moment.” He spoke with emphasis and
a degree more confidence than the doffers would have applied
to themselves.
“Why ...just why hasn’t there been a huge, bloody great
bloody punch up? The last time the Cabal crossed another gang
102 Philip Dunn
there was blood running in Brazilia for three weeks and it took
us six months to untangle the mess. This time, nothing, not
a titter. Why?”
They all sat in silence. Dutch because he knew the answer
and savored it sweetly on his acid tongue and the doffers be-
cause they did not and swallowed their ignorance like a bitter
pill. “I’ll tell you why.” They gulped with relief. “Because
each has something over the other which neither wants out in
the open. What?” Another question had worked its way, in-
trepidly to the surface.
“That would be my, next thought... what have they all got
up their merry little sleeves that they so badly wish to hide.
So badly in fact that they can effectively stifle the Thin-Men
community and sit on Faction?” Quite a problem that... Dutch
loved problems, provided he had a nice neat answer to them.
And in this case he had.
“Let’s go over it again...” Oh my God, the doffers grunted
silently.
“They plan a break-in. ..a real, big break in... genuine in
the minds of the Cabal though not in Vandal’s. Pinball needs
-money to shut the pigeon traps . . . not about the Sperm Reserve,
there wouldn’t be any point in that . . . he knows I know already.
In any event, he needs money so he lifts a bank, so. . . we have
one gap in the story. Nevertheless we’ll continue. While on
his rounds bribing the boys about town he makes his way to
my friend and yours...Jabber. Now, Jabber never tells
naughty tales on the Cabal so Pinball probably twists his arm
a bit for information and out pops something he doesn’t ex-
pect... trouble with Vandal.
“Vandal is caught. But there’s a bloody great fight with the
Thin-Men in the fray. They want Vandal as much as Pinball
because he knows something they want kept quiet.
“They fail.
“The Cabal dig the truth out of Vandal but Pinball smells
a rat so he takes out some insurance in the shape of a space
launch to whip him away in case his suspicions come to frui-
tion. A clever bastard our Pinball. He’ll go to hell but the route
will be a long one.
“He makes a deal with the Thin-Men, or, with someone the
 THE CABAL 103
Thin-Men are working for. But the Thin-Men don’t leave too
many loops in their plans either. They take Holly as insurance.”
Silence. Sergeant Samuels begins to rise.
“Sit down, you numbskull...I’m not done yet.” Samuels
sits, heaped against the odds.
“Much more subtle this situation, than a straightforward
bang ’em and mash do. It smells a bit in fact; smells to me
and smells to Pinball. It’s as though there’s something at stake
that neither the Cabal nor the Thin-Men have the power to
control. Now comes the crunch. There is not, to my certain
knowledge, an organization big enough to pitch itself against
both of our friendly groups. But there must be, by logical
deduction there has. to be, a group around, rich enough and
strong enough not only to provide a pearl that tempts the Cabal
and the Thin-Men but tempting enough also to shut their big
traps.” The doffers ranged across the desk were beginning to
expire from the atmosphere in the room and most had lost the
Inspector’s drift completely, but they could see from the gen-
eral content of the monologue that it was soon to come to an
end. They therefore made valiant efforts to look interested.
“Now here’s where the money comes in. Pinball is not
- shutting the traps to protect himself against leakage of the
Sperm break-in but something else. A heist, I would guess,
so big it will make every heist look like a small compost heap.
This one is such a whopper that no one is going to forget it
in a hurry and, guess what...I intend to stop it.” He paused
for effect and the doffers gawked. “You may ask how? You
may well ask how? Indeed you would be right to ask how!”
None of them asked how.
“Well, Pll tell you how. First I want a minimum guard
force on the Sperm Banks... but I want you to catch whoever
goes in...it won’t be the Cabal, you can be sure of that.
They'll set it up as a diversion with some hired thugs. But, no
heavy-handed idiots must be allowed to do damage to the
equipment in that place so catch them before they start. Second,
I want a tail put on all members of the Cabal, a back-up tail
so you don’t lose them.
“All Interopol forces must be alerted, all air fields, space
ports and banks. Bodyguards must be doubled on the political
 q‘
104 Philip Dunn
leaders and everyone must be made aware that this is the heis-
test heist that ever was. It’s no ordinary set, it’s the biggest
you'll ever see.”
Dutch was on his feet, his voice raised, his fingers pointing
and his face red. The doffers had seen it before but they knew
better not to follow his instructions to the “T”.
“Now get the hell out of here, you chatty bunch, and get
to it...and remember... you are responsible for the action
I want ...if Idon’t get it, you will... now piss off!”
They did.
Dutch sat down heavily. Trying to bang anything into the
heads of those greasy bastards was like trying to inject plate
steel with a syringe. He tapped his nail-bitten fingers on the
grubby desk. Pinball was the leader of this operation. . . how
could he get to Pinball... there had to be a simple way...
what were Pinball’s greatest weaknesses . . .?
Dutch touched the contact on his phone.
“Get me Chief Sergeant Elaine Ghent please...”
 CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The Deal

In Birmingham, Dutch’s deal was about to be played out,

though not quite in the way either he or Pinball had intended.
A large eight-seater slid silently round a dull street-corner and
drew to a halt outside a wharf. The lights were already out,
the car steered on infra-red directional beams in the pitch dark-
ness. Then the purring engine was turned off and silence spread
out from the vehicle like ripples in a black pool.
No one lived here. There were windows with filthy net
curtains still hanging from a century of neglect, and ancient
lamp-posts stood darkly by the side of the roads.
The surface of the road was cobbled, the once-curved stones
worn down almost flat from a thousand years of carriage. Now,
they were never touched, for the cars rode on air and the
silence, after so many years, emphasized the desolation.
“Lead the way,” Pinball gave Vandal a gentle nudge for-
ward.
“In through that entrance and up the stairs to the top. There’s
no lights and mind your head on the beam.” Pinball hit it and
ducked.
At the top were two metal doors. Vandal gave a coded
105 |
106 Philip Dunn

knock and then spoke his name at a plate in the door-frame.

The doors opened and they entered, still in almost complete
darkness. “Weekold, you and Roatax stay out here.” The two
obeyed. The door was shut behind them and another opened
on the other side of the room. Pinball, nudging Vandal, entered
the room with Faction in the rear. This door, too, shut and
lights switched on.
In the center of the room was a tall, plastic box. It stood
two meters high and one meter wide, its inside empty. There
was no one in the room and no equipment, save the box.
Pinball kept his eyes on what was obviously a holograph
chamber. A very sophisticated holograph for there was nothing
visibly providing power and an image that big would need a
lot of power.
“What is it?” whispered Faction.
“A 3-D box. I don’t think we’re actually going to meet
anyone...”
“You mean we’re going to get a recorded message?”
“No, they have to project a ‘reality-pic’, but it won’t be a
real live person, only a holographic image.” Pinball put a hand
out and placed it firmly on Vandal’s shoulder. The blaster in
his hand was levelled at the back of the alien’s skinny neck.
“Gentlemen,” came a voice behind the box, “may I intro-
duce you to the Grand Marshal Farrago from the planet Calm.”
As the voice spoke a light flashed into the box and filled
it. Colors mixed and faded until a body sat calmly and com-
fortably upon a tall backed chair with ornate carvings upon it.
The occupant leaned forward, his feet placed one behind the
other, a hand on one chair arm and the other touching his chin.
“The boss, I think,’ Pinball commented.
There was silence for a moment and the figure did not move.
It was as though some contact had to be set up and no movement
or sound could commence until this was complete. Then the
still picture moved. And spoke.
“Pinball, I think.”
“You think right.” Farrago’s image confronted Pinball as
though he was really there. The holograph was perfect and the
connection instantaneous. There appeared not to be a lapse in
transmission. ~
“What is your real name, Pinball?”
 - THE CABAL 107

“Stefan Coca, Marshal. ..and yours?”

“We are blessed with only one name, a fact I much regret.
It must be good to have a choice. And yours is a good name,
I commend your parents, names are so important, are they
not?”
“It is not a matter I had given much thought to, Marshal . . . you
have me at a disadvantage.”
“T think not, Pinball...”
“Why does your Clock Man not welcome us in person,
Marshal?”
“The Clock Men are modest people. They tend to shy away
from the light, for it shows their imperfections, does it not.
They prefer to remain behind the curtains. And I cannot be
with you in person, alas Pinball, for I am too far away just
now. I do, however, expect to arrive soon enough.”
“Yes, so I gather. ..July 4th I believe.”
“Correct. What would you have of me, Pinball?”
“T would have you turn about and go home, now, Farrago.”
“1m afraid that is no longer possible. You see, we do not
have enough fuel for a return trip.”
“Don’t fool with me. I have your number, Farrago, I know
what you intend. In fact I think perhaps you are a creature I
could happily kill.”
“Tam glad then, Pinball, that I do not stand in person before
you.”
“Wiil you give me your word that you will not kill any
_ more of Earth’s population than you can avoid?”
“No.”
“Will you wish us, the Cabal, absolute freedom to come
and go as we wish?”
“No.”
“So you intend to conquer.”
“T do, Pinball, whether you like it or not... will you join
me?”
“What difference would it make Farrago?”
“Much, you are a man I would rather fight with, than
against.”
“What will you grant me if I say yes?”
“Freedom, power, leadership. You will stand beside me in
place of one I have recently lost. You will be my Lanyard.”
 ‘ar
108 Philip Dunn
Pinball watched the subtly arranged light sources flash and
change as Farrago’s image moved within the box, every tiny
shift perfectly represented. They were an advanced people these
Calmalese. They would not be easy to foil.
“Very well.” Pinball felt Faction’s reaction behind him but
he stood his ground.
“Good . . . then I shall see you on Earth, Pinball. Do not fail
me. Your first task is to take that Sperm Reserve, so precious
to your people. Take it, Pinball, and destroy every single cell
in the place. Every one mind...” And the holograph faded to
darkness, suddenly it was empty.
Before Faction could chastise Pinball for his change of heart,
a bleep sounded on his transceiver.
“Yes,” he said.
“This is the Child Minders’ Home, Mr Whinter...I have
to tell you that your daughter has been kidnapped.”
“Christ help me . . . Christ . . . Christ. . . Pinball .. .”
Faction turned white and then red with fury. He looked at first
to Pinball for help but the thought that this man had sided with
the people he knew must have taken his daughter turned him
against the face that frowned at him.
“Faction. ..stop.” But the words came too late. Faction
rushed Pinball and struck out wildly. His anger needed abating
and Pinball looked like becoming the victim.
' “You...you take the side of people who would steal a
child...my child. You bastard, they will kill her now and
because you side with them I will kill you... 1 will kill you.”
Pinball sidestepped and took Faction’s arm as he passed. -
He twisted it painfully round with his one strong arm and thrust
it up towards the neck. But Faction was not to be held that
easily. He turned, simply over-powering Pinball. He was much
stronger and soon his great arms were wrapped in a death grip
about Pinball’s neck. He began to twist but the gristle of the
giant’s body was not so delicate that he could make a clean
break. Pinball resisted with all his strength. He was fighting
a mad-man for the moment, a man with more strength than
was good for him and there was no way he would win with
muscle.
Pinball butted out his bottom to try and dislodge the grip
from behind but Faction instinctively sidestepped. Pinball then —
t
 THE CABAL 109

stuck a foot high into Faction’s groin and with two quick moves
brought his head back, cracking Faction on the forehead and
pushed with his foot. Faction let go. Pinball turned and crashed
a massive blow across Faction’s face. He stepped forward as
the blow sent his opponent backwards and jumped, kicked and
struck with his fist. Faction hit the holograph box and smashed
it. There was a great explosion from inside and Faction was
catapulted forward, falling flat on his face, out cold.
“What the hell?” Roatax burst into the room with Weekold
close behind. Vandal was crouched, well out of the way, in
a corer.
“Get him out of here, back to your place, Roatax . . back
to Geneva and keep him locked up. Don’t let him get away
whatever you do, the Thin-Men have stolen Holly.”
“Oh my God, he’ll be like a bloody caged animal.”
“I’m going to get her back... just lock him up till I call
you.”
OM et
“Now, Vandal, you’re coming with me. I want your co-
operation or I'll set him on you!”
Vandal nodded and they departed.

“Report from agent 546, position remaining, south side wharf,

Birmingham City. All Cabal members left warehouse. Faction
unconscious, balance O.K. All in same car, registration re-
lated. Vandal goes willingly. Report ends.”
“Accepted, agent 546, follow car and report.”
“Agent 546 accepts.”

Pinball drove the ground car into Birmingham city center where
he and Vandal stole another, smaller and faster vehicle and left
- Roatax and Weekold to return to Geneva with Faction.
Pinball drove his car out of the city limits towards the north.
Ten kilometers from the center he stopped the car and touched
out a number on the car phone.
In Amsterdam, where Jabber had since moved, the small
portable telephone bleeped and Jabber touched the reception
button. There were very few people with his number, but Pin-
ball was granted that privilege.
“Pinball, how very pleasant to hear from you again. I trust
110 Philip Dunn
you have not suffered any serious misfortune since our
meeting.”
“I’m afraid there has been a slight complication. You may
have heard something of a kidnapping?”
“Of late there have been a number of such crimes. Not one
that I like. Brings so much suffering.”
“This particular kidnapping has brought much suffering too,
Jabber, to Faction.”
“Ah, yes, Faction, the man with the muscle. Another reason
why I tend to stay keen but quiet to your progress. A kidnapping
you say?”
“Indeed. A very dangerous kidnapping, Jabber. Faction is
prone to go crazy when his Holly is involved. . . almost killed
me=
“How unpleasant, but what did you wish of me?”
“TI need to know who performed the kidnapping and where
they took the child.”
“T see...how is your account at the Chase Manhattan
Bank?”
“Still healthy, though not quite what it used to be. I could
offer you ten.”
“T think that would be acceptable. You should head north,
Pinball, keep going. I will track down the exact locality and
call you back... I take it you are driving a stray vehicle. You
had better give me the number to call.”
The phone went dead and Pinball set the car in motion. He
took the main highway north and drove fast.
There was a car on his tail. It travelled a long way behind
him but it had to be one of Dutch’s. They had picked up the
scent but there was nothing to be done at this stage. He would
have to do something sooner or later however.
Vandal contemplated his uncertain future in silence.
“Do you really plan to serve them, Pinball?”
“No.”
“How will you manage that?”
“We'll see, we'll see.” The phone buzzed and Pinball
touched the contact for reception.
“This is Jabber, Pinball, I think I have learned a little more
to your advantage. .. itseems that the Thin-Men have been at
 THE CABAL 111
work on behalf of some other organization, the name of which
I cannot quite gather.”
“That is of no consequence, all I need to know is the where-
abouts of their hideout.”
“I offer warning, Pinball . . . it seems from my enquiries that
the boss of this organization is big... bigger perhaps than the
Thin-Men or the Cabal.”
“Nevertheless, the locality please.” Pinball was impatient.
“Scotland.”
“Where in Scotland?”
“Close to the border there is a highway, number 4456/b9.
This takes you slightly west and then north again. Four kilo-
meters along this road you should look for a sign to Gallearly
Village. Once in the village find a turning that takes you west
and continues for another kilometer through farmland, mostly
cultivated beetroot I think. Soon you will see a copse of trees,
oak trees. These trees are the beginning of the piece of private
land owned by the Thin-Men and used for harboring various
unknown activities, presumably including kidnapped chil-
dren... nasty lot those Thins. Two hundred meters behind the
copse to the west is a farmhouse. The place is not heavily
guarded but there is a force protector field about it. No doubt
you will find a way through, Pinball. Holly Whinter is within,
nroceed with caution and take with you my good wishes. I
feel your cause is a worthy one, you may hold the fee we
discussed to my account, I may have need of you in the future.
Blessings, Pinbali, blessings.” The line clicked dead. The way
was Clear.

Down the corridor of the Calm-Earth came three heavily

cloaked figures. They were dressed in the imposing “Red-
Cloaks”, gowns worn only on occasions of high religious cel-
ebration. The headdress fell over the brows, hiding features,
- showing only a dark, ghost-like interior. The hugely luxuriant
material swirled about their feet as they swept along, shrouded
and sinister. They were royal and unremitting, their power
swishing with each broad step.
 112 Philip Dunn

They headed for the “Gathering-Chamber” where there was

to be a meeting, summoned by Farrago; a meeting which they
knew would kill or cure their wavering, mystical leadership
of the people of Calm.
_ Already in the chamber were the leading officers and Lan-
yards of the launches, transported from across thousands of
kilometers of space. At their head, raised on a podium, was
a huge chair, the chair that Pinball had seen inside the holograph
‘box. Now it stood ready to receive its sovereign elect. Farrago
had timed his arrival to be the last.
On either side of the chair sat two Lanyards, and in front,
below the podium, was Pint.
The doors were thrust back at the other end of the chamber
and in swept the last three Clock Men. They strode with all
their powerful confidence up the aisle and to complete hush
sat quickly in their seats at the front of the gathering.
_. There was a slight renewal of talk, though most voices were
in whisper and everyone awaited the Grand Marshal.
The doors opened again and in strode the tall, gaunt color
of their magnificent leader, dressed in full warrior’s regalia.
The headdress was pushed back off his long head and his green
eyes flashed about the gathering as he moved proudly down
the passage to the podium.

yards, left and right and sat. Pint rnin still in

i his chair
without glancing at his master.
Farrago twisted his shoulders and released the clasp of his
cloak. It fell back and settled upon the seat. He leaned forward
and observed his audience for a full two minutes. When he
finally spoke his voice was deep and low, a voice so well
known to the people he led. Despite the vast size of the audience
there was no problem in hearing his words. Somehow his
gentle, hushed sentences crossed the space before him and
settled upon the attention of each and every Calmalese, es-
pecially upon the Clock Men.
“Calmalese, I have gathered you here to tell of some recent
events as we crossed the Bridges of Grief and to speak of the
future of our people upon Earth.”
There was another long silence.
“Many of you will have known Donya, my seniorsnLanyard!
 THE CABAL 113

Many more will:know of his death, but perhaps not too many
will know the circumstances of that death.”
He paused for effect and a faint wavering of conversation
spread over the gathering. Farrago raised a hand to hush them
and continued, “It seems that there are those among us who
would wish me dead.” These words, uttered in the low tones
of the Grand Marshal, brought gasps of authentic approbation.
This was a spaceship and around them were a million other
ships, carrying the cream of an entire race to a new world. Not
a place for mutiny. »
“Since my return on board, unharmed, after the short trip
on to the Bridges, I have made it my business to search out
those who were responsible for the attempt on my life, those
who were responsible for Donya’s death.” He paused again,
leaning forward on the words “made it my business”, empha-
sising that there was no doubt as to the outcome. His officers
and crew knew him. He did not stand by while others tried to
usurp his leadership. None crossed Farrago without punish-
ment.
At that moment, all within the “Gathering-Chamber” were
uncertain of their futures and a cold fear spread across them.
“You all know me. You know your Grand Marshal. You
know that I do not point the finger without good reason. You
know too that when I choose the culprits I choose them because
they are guilty and for that they die, come what may, whom-
soever they may be...” He paused and then stood, towering
above them all on the podium. “I alone hold the power of
death. None other among the people of Calm aboard this ship
can dispense the final punishment . . . not even the Clock Men.”
These last words created a new humor, a fresh tremor of
troubled whispering that circulated among all but the Clock
Men who remained still, buried inside the dark mantles of their
cloaks.
“If I am to point that finger now, if I am to stand in final
judgement upon those who raised their hand against me then
I do so without doubt, without regret and with maximum cause.
I stand alone or with your approval. If you will stand against
me then I will still not hesitate to act.” His voice grew louder,
in an unaccustomed tone that lent terror to his words.
“J will despatch the killers of my Lanyard come what may
114 Philip Dunn
and if you wish to try and stop me, many will die before I.
I will fight till I am filled with the gashes of your weapons for
it is the Clock Men at whom I point the finger.”
There was uproar. The gathering stood regaling one another,
Farrago, the Clock Men, shouting their gestures across the vast
room, filling it with anger.
The cacophony reached a pitch, no one believing, yet all
knowing the truth. Farrago had whipped them into a fury of
blood lust and, just as it seemed there would be chaos in the
“Gathering Chamber”, a great and vulgar voice was heard
above all the rest. It was the awful voice of Pint, Farrago’s
henchman. He was up on the Marshal’s seat, his mighty arms
high in the air, each hand carrying an end of a huge jag-sword.
His face was even more hideous than usual, his body shaking
with fury and his head high, shouting commands for silence.
And soon it came, spreading like the shadow of a dying sun
across the Calmalese. There was no refusing Pint. He stepped
down from the chair, strode two meters in two steps and with
one mighty sweep of the massive sword he snatched the head
from a cloaked figure sitting at the front of the gathering. It
was the head of the chief Clock Man, and it fell with a thud
to the ground, the body slumped to one side, motionless, pour-
ing blood from the dreadful wound.
Five more Clock Men died at the hands of surrounding
Calmalese officers who plunged daggers and swords into their
necks. The smell of death rose above the crowded, intent peo-
ple, like a sinuous gangrene, filling the chamber with its dread-
ful heaviness. Six Clock Men remained. All stood, drawing
swords from beneath their cloaks ready to slay as many of their
aggressors as they could before they too were slashed to pieces.
Farrago raised a blaster that Pint had thrust into his hand
and fired five clean shots. They were all quick and true, drilling
tiny holes in the spines of the five now turned to face the
people. The sixth stood alone. The Clock Man who had mas-
terminded the attempt on Farrago’s life.
Complete silence surrounded him. Farrago stepped forward
and touched the blaster barrel under his cloak hood, flicked
upwards and bared what should have been the Clock Man’s
head. It was part of the Clock Men’s sacred oath that they
would never be identified, never stripped of their mystery.
 THE CABAL 115

They stood alone, always hidden behind the facade of their

habit, even from one another. No one had ever seen a Clock
Man. “4
A gasp of shocked disbelief followed the unveiling. Farrago
smiled an evil smile. For, instead of a tall, noble head, under
that cloak there was no head at all. The upper part of the hood
had been supported by a crutch, a long stick with a rounded
support at the top which kept the cloak in position. The stick
disappeared into the body of the garment and the front was
held tightly together.
Farrago took Pint’s sword from him and thrust it gently
towards the body. He did not aim to kill, only to humiliate,
for the cloak was stripped away to reveal a small bent creature
underneath that carried the stick supporting his hood. The tiny
figure clutched the support as though he were dragging at the
legs of his mother, his eyes flashing this way and that about
him. The body was lean and hairless, the mouth full and the
nose crooked and delicate. The face had nothing of the usual
_markings that most Calmalese develop in their rugged climate.
It was the face of a protected child, constantly swaddled against
the elements.
After the initial shock of this twisted old and deformed
priest of power, the Calmalese began to laugh. They laughed
so uproarously that the chamber vibrated and shook to the
sound. Farrago turned to the pathetic figure that cowered in
‘terror before him. He lifted the jag-sword and brought it down
with one thrust splitting the Clock Man’s head and body from
top to stomach. The two halves of the shriven carcass fell apart
and Farrago was covered in the blood of his most hated enemy.
Now he was truly master of his people. And for that, he
was all the more determined to lead them to their new paradise
on Earth.

* * *

Pinball and Vandal had reached the deep country at the edges
of Scotland’s borders. The windy roads took them precariously
through farming land and across a divided field. It was dark
and on the horizon in dim silhouette stood a copse of oak trees.
“There it is,” Pinball said.
 116 Philip Dunn
“I suppose the place will be guarded at the gates.”
“Jabber said there were few guards, remember?”
“No, I wasn’t listening, the less I hear the better.”
“You’d better listen to what I’m going to say, I need your
help for this operation...”
“How?”
“How’s your Thin-Man accent?”
“Why?”
“You're going to be spending the next few days talking to
them on the phone.”
“You mean you’re planning to leave me here, looking after -
Holly?” ;
: “Tt’s the least you can do, Vandal, after all you caused the
Kidnap in the first place.” Pinball turned to look at Vandal as
the car drew to a halt beside the trees. He waved a hand at the
protestations.
“In any event you’ve no choice, I’m making you responsible
for Holly ...if you want to go on living.”
“T thought you might say that.”
“Right, then do it with equanimity, friend, and you might
make your devious way out of this mess after all.”
Vandal sighed a heavy sigh and climbed out of the car.
Pinball followed.
“Why don’t you just kill them off and take Holly with
yous
“Because I don’t want the Thin-Men to know they don’t
have their hostage. If they know that they’ll start getting ner-
vous and mess things up.”
He took an infra-red scanner out of the car locker and turned
it on. Behind the trees there were a few guards and a field
generator which controlled the force shield about the house.
“It’s like a bloody penal colony,” Vandal suggested, hoping
that Pinball might give up the attempt.
Pinball turned off the beam and replaced into the car. He
sat down on the grass and thought. Vandal sat nearby and
waited, quite happy to take a back seat.
The air about them was cooling with the coming of night.
The climate satellites that spun about their orbit were ina warm |
cycle, and the next few days would remain so. The Carnival
had to be in a bright period.
 THE CABAL Le

A:small gust of wind caught up some leaves and spun them

about Pinball’s feet, discarding them with a flourish. Pinball
watched, half thinking. Then he snapped his fingers and
climbed stealthily to his feet.
He turned the car about so that the rear end was presented
to the gates of the house, about thirty meters away behind the
tall cedar tree that graced the entrance.
The guards were inside the force shield about the house and
across the gate. They needed to be brought out.
Pinball backed the vehicle under the tree, disguised by the
low branches but with the jet snouts poking through.
He climbed out and opened the front of the car. Then he
’ moved silently across to Vandal.
“T want you to get as close to the gates as possible without
being seen. Once the force shield opens get in anyhow and Ill
be behind you. Right?”
“What if there are more than just those two guards?”
“We'll just have to hope there aren’t.”
“That’s a bit of a big hope isn’t it?”
“What would life be without some ‘ifs’?” Pinball nudged
him.
“That doesn’t sound like the Pinball I know...”
“No, well, the scanner told me there were only two. Evi-
dently they reckon the force field to’be enough.”
“I’d be inclined to agree with them, wouldn’t you?”
Pinball humphed at Vandal and waved him off in the di-
rection of the gates. He returned to the car. He waited until
Vandal had had time to get close to the gates and then he
_ started the engine. The throttle was at maximum thrust but the
drive was not in sinc. The jets very quickly picked thrust until
it was a huge blast and the noise of atomic power reached a
shrieking pitch. The two guards peered out through the force
shield, unable to feel the wind from the jets, only able to hear
the terrible row. They turned on arc lamps but could see nothing
under the branches of the trees. The ground between them and
the tree was solid concrete and reflected no wind blast. To one
side Vandal was hidden beside the gatepost, unseen.
One of them moved towards the gate-house, presumably to
call up the house but before he reached it the other guard
- opened the force shield with a device on his belt.
118 Philip Dunn
The blast from the car threw him off his feet, scattering him
ten meters from where he had stood. The other guard fell too,
but less from the wind than from a bullet through the head
from Pinball’s rifle.
Vandal moved like a gazelle over the remaining ground and
raced to a point within two meters of the guard, fallen on his
back. The guy had a choice; either he could go for the button
on his belt that would close the gate again and prevent any
other intruders from following Vandal in or he could go for
the blaster and ensure his own safety from the immediate threat.
He chose the latter and died for it.
Pinball had realized at the last minute that Vandal had no
weapon and watched the coming tussle with apprehension. But
Vandal was not one to leave himself completely unprotected.
He stuck a long-bladed knife in the Thin-Man’s throat and that
was the end.
Pinball turned off the car jets and sauntered towards the
gates. “You'd better get on to the house and see if you can’t
get them out here too. Tell them you need help.”
“O.K.” Vandal spoke on the phone in his well-practised
Thin-Man tongue. Within three minutes, two more of them
emerged from the house and were ceremoniously picked off
by blasters. The rest was a formality and thirty minutes later
Pinball was leaving the house with Vandal safely ensconced,
his arm about a happy Holly, the television on.
“Tl call you on the usual frequency from New York... don’t
leave here unless the Thin-Men come.” Pinball instructed.
“O.K....don’t worry, I promise.”
“Make bloody sure you do, Vandal. . . she needs some pro-
tection. I'll see you...” He blew a kiss at Holly but she was
too busy with the TV program to notice his departure.
 CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The Device

Anyone other than Pinball would have discarded the idea of

breaking into the Sperm Reserve in the face of the odds that
had built up since the plan was first mooted. Most people
wouldn’t have considered it in the first place but the Cabal was
well known for its hare-brained schemes and famous too for
bringing them off by one means or another.
Pinball had not discarded the idea. On the contrary, now
that he knew what the odds were and what was due to happen
on July 4th, he was all the more eager to get in there and pull
off the break-in of the century. In fact, not to put too strong
a point on it, the Sperm Reserve break-in was his only hope.
He knew, however, the devious and calculating mind of Dutch.
The business of planning, to the arch-planner, was a matter
of steps; one step in front of the other, forward, sideways or
even backwards. Pinball knew that Dutch knew that he knew
Dutch knew . that Pinball planned a break-in. He knew also
that Dutch knew that he knew Dutch knew...that Pinball
planned a break-in. Those two cancelled out, then, didn’t they?
So the next step forward was to guess what Dutch would do
next. He would, Pinball guessed, expect the Cabal, knowing
119
- 120 - Philip Dunn
that he knew their plans, to change their plans. Apart from this
Dutch also had his stool-pigeons; everyone knew that Dutch’s
pigeons were the most efficiently organised in the world. The
chances were then that even with hundreds of thousands of the
Chase Manhattan Bank’s money spent on shutting traps, Dutch -
would catch a whimper of the bigger plans that the Cabal
contemplated. He might know nothing of their specific nature
but as sure as hell he would have gathered something.
After all, there had been a bank robbery, a kidnapping and
a pitch battle for possession of Vandal. These things could
have little to do with a Sperm Reserve break-in. Dutch was
by no means stupid and he would be busy now, considering
what it was that occupied the Cabal so hotly for the future.
Nevertheless, knowing all this, Dutch also knew Pinball,
he knew that the Sperm Reserve raid would not be discarded
easily. He would be expecting something and he would get it,
though not quite in the form he might imagine.
Pinball arrived in New York six days before the Carnival
date, June 29th 2420. He registered at a small hotel on 22nd
Street called the Passmore and having settled comfortably into
an uncomfortable room in a style Jabber would have been proud
of, he set off further downtown to a tiny, almost hidden factory
owned by a man recommended to him by “friends”.
The factory was a shack at the top of a tenement block,
ready for dismantling, long condemned. Its roof was asbestos
corrugation, its door a wooden board or two nailed together.
Its windows were black with accumulated dirt arid grime, its
walls a plethora of graffiti. The approach to the entrance was
a rooftop which had never been attended by its landlord and
a worn patch showed where the tenant of the shack walked
each: day, to and from his labors.
There were cages to one side that may once have been
occupied by birds, probably carrier pigeons. Now, all that
remained was solid bird lime and entrapped grey and white
feathers blowing in the slight breeze.
The garbage cans were crammed to overflowing. Even the
enthusiasm of the garbage collectors in their half-day jobs did _
not run to this height above New York City. The mess spread
about the bins and created a stale smell of festering that had
 THE CABAL 121

- continued for so long its odor had given up the struggled attempt
to nauseate.
None of this suited Pinball one bit. His fastidious nature
abhorred such conditions but he had to endure it all to get what
he wanted.
He knocked on the door and it shook. Something or someone
inside jumped. Visitors, understandably, were not frequent and
it took nearly five minutes before the door was shoved roughly
aside, revealing a huge bulk just behind the doorframe. This
was Alberto Dickleshiner. . .
Alberto Dickleshiner was born of a family. who might once
have been immigrant Italians. Only an American could possibly
have a name like Dickleshiner and to retain the dubious ad-
vantages of the Dickleshiner heritage brought to America by
mother, father had agreed to label his eldest son with the name
Alberto. Not simply Albert, but Alberto. By the immediate
look of him it seemed unlikely to Pinball that the Dickleshiner
line would ever be continued. Thus Italy, Alberto and this
bedraggled shack on top of New York City would soon be
forgotten. The two men, of almost equal stature, looked at one
another. Dickleshiner peered through a pair of metal-rimmed
spectacles, a rare sight these days of lens grafts, and Pinball
peered back, wondering whether he might have been given the
wrong address.
“Alberto Dickleshiner?” he asked.
“Albert Dickleshiner.” Oh, the death of an inheritance.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Dickleshiner, they told me.
“Yes, well, they told you wrong, what do you want?” The
" man was not eager to converse on a polite level with someone
who carelessly reminded him of his mother. Albert shifted his
heavily laden feet just inside the door and began to close it
against invasion.
“A mutual friend told me you might like to earn some
money.” The door edged open slightly.
“What kind of money?”
“A lot of money,” Pinball baited.
“You'd better come inside.” Albert moved backwards with
a shuffle reminiscent of a sea-cow out of water.
‘
Pinball followed the slow gait into the shack. Inside, the
A SRG Philip Dunn ance
np

light was dim, the contents difficult to discern until his pupils
had made the leap from needle thin to wide aperture.
Once accustomed to the light Pinball wondered perhaps if
there’d recently been a mine blast or a rampaging bull in there.
All the sagging shelves and table-tops were covered in elec-
tronic fragments. Drawers hung open, gasping from the stuffing
of equipment down their throats.
Albert was a hoarder, one of those breeds of eccentric who
would die a thousand deaths at the sight of a disposal chute,
who could never abide the removal of anything conceivably
useful, even in the life hereafter. He couldn’t take it with him
but he’d damn well hang on to it while he was here.
He removed a pile of transistors from a stool, swept it more
or less clean of dust and thrust it at Pinball. He. settled back
on to his own podium which was worn so thoroughly in the
center that it could have doubled as a commode.
“Well?” he prompted.
“TI need your help, and I’m prepared to pay well for it.”
“You may have to.” A man of few, but well-chosen words.
Pinball paused, looking for the right approach.
“I’m told you have certain expert knowledge that might be
to our mutual advantage.”
Albert’s eyebrows remained where they were.
“T want a robot.”
“T don’t build robots,” Albert said penance
“But...” Pinball gestured.
“T build androids.”
“Ah...” Relief.
“Robots are things of the past. . . nobody builds robots any
more except for menial operation.. -anyone can build a
robot... don’t waste my time with robots.”
“Very well. ..I want an android.”
“Good . “how much?”
“Hundred thousand dollars.”
Albert looked at Pinball. Pinball looked at Albert. Neither
knew what was in the other’s look but both knew that it wasn’t
enough,
“It’s not enough. .. for a hundred thousand you’ll get some-
thing that can count to ten and open and close an elevator
door!”
me
THE CABAL 123
“How much then?”
“It depends what you want it for.”
Pinball looked again at the cybernetics engineer.
“I want it to break into a building, steal something and
remain put so that no one can get it out again.”
“Christ!”
This was the first genuine reaction that Albert had allowed
between his teeth. Matters were looking up.
“Can you do it?”
Albert spluttered a bit. “Do it? Of course I can do it. . . very
few others could do it, certainly not in these conditions, but
I could do it... in worse, and itll cost you half a million, half
now and half when I deliver.”
“Christ!” Now it was Pinball’s turn. The Cabal foundation
a la Chase Manhattan had just about that much left.
“There goes my pension.”
“It’s a big job. Not only are you asking me to make a
cybernaut that will perform like a man but he’d have to be a
‘bloody clever man. On top of that you don’t want anyone to
see, that’s a tall order, a very expensive order. It’ll take a lot
of expensive equipment and a lot of time.”
“How much time?”
“°Bout two weeks.”
“You’ve got six days.”
“You’re crazy, it'll take me that long to get the goods.”
“With a quarter million dollars in your pocket you could
fly to the bloody goods.”
“You mean you’ll pay that much?”
“If you do it in six days, yes.”
Albert pulled his long nose, tweaked his thick ear, ran a
hoary hand over his stubby face and belched in contemplation.
“O.K.” he said simply. As if the commission was to tune
~ a piano.
“Six days for sure, or I come back and take the money and
your shack away from you.”
“Mr... whatever your name is, don’t threaten me. If I say
I can do it in six days, it’ll be done in six days. There’s no
need for any encouragement. I’m a craftsman, a professional.
I know what I can do. You get the money to me in the next
couple of hours and then come back in five days. We'll test
WP
124 Philip Dunn

the machine at that point and if you’re satisfied you can pay
the rest of the bill there and then.”
“T’ll pay you the half now.”
“You mean you’ve got a quarter million dollars on you. . . in
cash...and you’d have offered me a hundred thousand?”
“Of course, I’m a professional too.”
“Hmph...O.K., half now and half in five days.”
Pinball counted out the money.
“One thing, Mr. Dickleshiner... how do I get the android
where I want it when I’ve got it?”
“You don’t, it will get there by itself.”
Pinball handed over the rest of the money without another
word and was gone.

i
 CHAPTER SIXTEEN

The Bermuda Triangle .

Since 1945 thousands of lives had been lost in a well-defined

area between Bermuda and Florida in the Western Atlantic.
No one knew why. It just happened, some said by visiting
alien craft, others by natural causes. In any event by 2420 there
was still no explanation. The ships, planes, spacecraft contin-
ued to vanish.
On the beaches of Florida, close to the edge of the Bermuda
Triangle, stood the U.S.A.P.’s largest communications center.
In close touch with the climate satellites and constantly talking
to the rest of the inhabited solar system this center was to be
responsible for the launching of the space invasion planned to
coincide with the beginning of the World Carnival. It was to
co-ordinate the whole shabang, to start the flag waving, to
trigger the ticker-tape, to light the blue touch paper. . all at
precisely the right moment.
This was point one of the Bermuda Triangle.
The armies of the Confederation of World Forces were
perched upon Mars, ready to make their descent to Earth. The
largest part of the fake onslaught would fly over the Western
Atlantic, slap in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle.
125
a
126 Philip Dunn

Here was point two of the Bermuda Triangle.

In Bermuda itself was a rocket, standing on the huge take- _
off pad, fuelled and ready to go at a moment’s notice with
Pinball aboard, set to head into space towards a destination
that only he knew.
This was point three of the Bermuda Triangle.
Then there was Farrago. With his finely tuned tracking
equipment he knew precisely where the fake invasion was due
to land and to add to the resulting chaos he planned a giant
force which would pull out from the main Calmalese invasion
and fly across the Western Atlantic from Bermuda to Florida
Beach landing in New York City itself.
Here was the center of the Bermuda Triangle. ..the new
point. :
It was midnight, July 3rd. Pinball was in his hotel room,
wide awake.
In his hand, a transceiver, in his bed, a girl. His head was
full of excitement, his heart adrenalin. Twelve hours to go.
“Vandal ...do you read me?”
SYOSae
“How goes it?”
wey sal day 2 Ve
“What about the nights?” :
“Book viewing, book reading, book talking and book draw-
ing... this kid is 1-i-t-e-r-a-r-y——_”’
“No problems. . .?”
“No problems. Except maybe I could do with some sleep.”
“T’ll be in touch.”
“Good luck tomorrow. I'll miss the action. . .a little.”
“Out.”
Pinball switched the channels on the transceiver and the girl
turned sleepily on to her back, the smooth-tanned body naked,
warm and freshly loved. Pinball looked down upon her sen-
suous movement and considered a fifth encounter. Duty first.
“Roatax, do you read me?”
“Yes, you’re late.”
“Stop complaining, this is short air space, I don’t want pick
up.” ;
“O.K., O.K., What’s new?”
“Where are you?” Pinball asked.
 THE CABAL 127
“Where you sent us, Geneva, of course, we’re all here, safe
and sound.”
“Faction too?”
“Yes, he’s calmed down a lot since he heard the good
news,”
“Fine, now listen. . . when the dirty business starts I want
you to get out of there with Weekold and Faction and make
your way to New York’s. Manhattan Landing port, space port
9... you know?”
“Sure I know... what d’yer think I am, stupid?”
“There you’ll find a newly landed space launch...a very
big one...”
“My God, I hope you don’t want me piloting the damn
thing... you know what I’m like in space.”
“No, just get aboard it. Get rid of any guards around and
take it over. Don’t let any one in...except the pilot...
that’s your escape route right?”
“Who’s the fucking pilot...”
“Don’t worry, you'll have a pilot, just sit tight and let him
do the driving...” : :
“Where'd we go?”
“Forget it, the pilot will take you the right way, just get in
the launch.” :
“God, I do hate you bloody chauvinist pigs...think you
can issue orders and get obeyed, don’t you, you great ugly
bastard.”
“You don’t have to go if you’d rather stay.”
“Pir go; Fil go. >.”
“You must be there in the craft by 13:00 hours tomor-
row...not a minute later.” —
“Got ya.” 3
“Out.”
Pinball put down the transceiver and turned to the woman
beside him, still gently asleep on the soft bedding. He stretched
out a hand and stroked her breasts. The nipples slowly stood
out, from the large dark surrounds and her back arched, thrust-
ing her large warm breasts into a firm, smooth oval. He allowed
his hand to drift down her body, across the rounded stomach
and into the deep, thick hair below her belly. The curled, silken
_ mat engulfed his fingers and she instinctively thrust her bottom
128 Philip Dunn .

up to encourage his advances, her legs spreading wide apart.

Without opening her eyes she put out her arms and encom-
passed his neck. He moved over the shifting body and slid his
cock into her. She changed her wrapped hands, uncoupling
them from about his thick neck and grasped the slowly heaving
shoulders, one in each nail-piercing hand. She opened her eyes
and looked up at the giant who made love to her yet again, her
hips moving in rhythm with his deft thrusts, a look of animal
lust on her face, her teeth clenched, the pupils dilated, a glisten
of sweat over the muscular limbs that so appreciated what they
received.
And Dutch heard it all. The girl knew it, so convincingly
performing her part in the tracking of the Cabal that you might
think she was genuine. Dutch knew it, listening with considered
disinterest to the grunts of his exhibiting animals, waiting for
the bits he liked, the talk. Pinball didn’t know it though. He’d
have been bloody mad if he had, and even if he ever wished
to turn exhibitionist he would hardly have chosen Dutch as the
ideal audience. Dutch didn’t care about that and the girl, Chief
Sergeant Ghent of the Interopol Secret Service Force, on “spe-
cial duty” was making the very best of an extremely dangerous
assignment, that was for sure.
After another twenty minutes or so of bestiality they rolled
on to more distant parts of the bed. The coupling was over
again, and the animals parted company. The air cooled, the —
sound that Dutch heard silenced, the technician operating the -
recording wiped sweat from his brow and Pinball got up. He
walked across the room and took out a piece of paper from his
pocket, and a stilo-pen which he opened.
Sitting at the desk opposite the bed he began to write notes.
Chief Sergeant Ghent reclined, feeling guilty at every moment
of enjoyment. Now she wanted to indulge her feelings of re-
laxation and fulfilment, unwilling to continue her “duty”. But
Dutch would be listening to every ruffle of the sheets, counting
each moment of silence, cursing her for all the information she
had not gathered. She lifted her head and looked across at the
clear-skinned, muscular back sitting at the table. She couldn’t
have damaged that back even if she carried a gun in her hand.
It was too good a back, not a back to be marked...
“What are you doing?” she asked.
 THE CABAL. 129

“Writing,” came the unrevealing reply.

“You're always busy, don’t you ever relax?”
“What do you think I’ve been doing for the last half hour?”
“Not what Id called relaxing.”
“It relaxes me.”
“Hm.” Difficult to continue that line of conversation.
She let her head flop back again, feeling the comfort of her
sated body and wishing wholeheartedly that her place there
was legitimate.
She rolled off the bed, hoping at least that the sound of
rustling sheets would abate Dutch’s ever-seeking ears for the
moment. She moved to the window.
This high up there wasn’t much need for security and the
sashes were old, metal and dirty. Yet they worked smoothly
within their grooves as she lifted one and then the other enough
to peer out at the buildings opposite. She sat, naked, on the
edge and watched the ants below, the windows opposite, some
black, empty, a few occupied and lit. The curtains cloaked her
back. Curtains were rare enough but these were velvet, original
velvet, a strange luxury in such a hotel. She sniffed the air and
pondered on how to interrogate this fastidiously cautious man
without raising suspicion.
It had to be done some time, so it might just as well be
now. She opened her mouth to start the first sentence but it
was Pinball who spoke.
“Have you ever been through the Bermuda Triangle?”
“Yes,” she gulped, maybe her job was to be done for her.
Dutch turned the volume up and kicked the reclining tech-
nician.
“You know where it is then?”
“Not far from here.”
“That’s right.”
There was silence. Sergeant Ghent felt her heart hit the roof
of her mouth. He was going to stop there, she had to keep the
train going, she couldn’t lose it now. But, again, as she opened
her mouth to speak he filled the silence himself.
“Do you know there’ve been more than three million people
lost in that place... in that stretch of land and water... three
million! More strange, unexplained phenomena than any-
where in the entire solar system over 450 years. They’ve even
130 Philip Dunn

set up a massive communications center there, originally just

to monitor any craft passing through the Triangle. Now it’s
the biggest single audio/visual contact in the world, used by
almost every agency, aircraft, rocket, planet or telephone ex-
change. And it’s right slap in the middle of the Bermuda Tri-
angle.”
What was he leading to...or not leading to...she had to
prompt him.
“Have you been across the Triangle?”
“Yes, many times.”
“And you’re still here. . . maybe it’s just hokus-pokus.”

“Get me the files, the tapes, the films. . .everything on the

Bermuda Triangle...” Dutch ordered. They sent out a truck.

“Three million people...7,000 ships, 14,000 aircraft...

hokus-pokus?” , 3
“That is a lot,” she stole herself. “You seem to know a lot
about it. ..did you study the phenomenon?”
“No.” A tilted answer, his head turning slightly, that sen-
sitive appreciation on the edge of awareness.
“You must have a head for figures,” she back-tracked,
gently. “It’s a hobby of mine...I collect stray facts. Can’t
resist them.”
That was it...she’d ventured a milimeter too far into the
forbidden territory of this extraordinary man and now he had
rounded the end of the conversation, neatly and formally.
“Kind of a good place for a phenomenon really . . . wouldn’t
you say?” Or had he?
“I don’t understand.”
“No, neither do I...”
Silence again. The air turned into the room from outside
and she shivered slightly. Dutch was twitching, feeling the
intense frustration of distance and his reliance on the female
sergeant. She wasn’t doing too badly considering her subject,
but not enough yet. Nowhere near enough. Why was he talking ©
about the Bermuda Triangle? That was where the fake invasion
was due to be at its heaviest. He might know that, but Pinball
wouldn’t waste time debating it, if he knew, so why the talk?
“Do you think something’s going to happen?” Dangerous
 THE CABAL 131
- waters, but she had to keep afloat.
“I don’t know, do you?” Pinball turned right round at last
and Sergeant Ghent, faced by those glittering grey eyes, felt
a sharp shiver down her spine.
“No...1...1...I just don’t follow your thoughts. . . that’s
all.” Her hesitation was natural, she assured herself, quite
natural. Pinball dropped his gaze, evidently satisfied with her
answer.
“Something’s going to happen there... that’s for sure. . . but
I don’t know how much of a something. . . how many things.”
That was it, Dutch thought. There was a connection. Pinball
would never consider something he knew perfectly well, to
such an extent. He would not discuss it, ponder on it, if he
was convinced. That meant, either he did not know about the
fake invasion, or he knew something else was going to happen
in the Triangle.
Dutch knew Pinball too well to suppose he didn’t know
about the fake invasion, so that left only one alternative. But
what was that something else? Dutch chewed a nail. The
rocket...the rocket he ordered from Johan...that was in
Bermuda... could it be that?
Dutch had hitherto only considered that as an escape route.
It was unlikely to be the hub of any plan or Pinball would have
concealed his intention more carefully, even from a girl he
suspected only to be passing in the night. He knew also that
a phone call could be traced and recorded. No, that was not
important... it could only be an escape route. So what else
was there? ;
The ‘fake invasion, Pinball knew about that for sure. And
it was to be in the Bermuda Triangle. There was the rocket.
That too was in the Triangle. Then there was the Communi-
cations Center. He’d mentioned that. That was in the Bermuda
Triangle. Three things, the Bermuda Triangle. Three points
to the angles, a triangle . . . or was there now a fourth? Goddamn
it. Dutch was stumped for once.
* * *

Fifteen minutes by jet from Pinball’s hotel was the Inter-System

- Communication Center. It occupied four kilometers of the ex-
ty

se
132 Philip Dunn
treme end of Florida Beach and it buzzed.
Through the ISCC it was possible to connect with any of
the sola System planets from the nearby Moon right out to
distant dark Pluto. The Center was used to colate information
from all the planets which had at least a series of surveying
craft upon them. The more distant worlds were not permanently
manned, but all relayed back to ISCC, constant data about
changing conditions. Every international telephone conversa-
tion was routed through the ISCC and it could be used as a
tracking center for call-tapping by the Interopol forces.
It co-ordinated all warning systems for incoming meteorites
and between potentially warring nations.
But most of all it was the only place on Earth that could
touch the real distances of space. Its tracking receivers scanned
the universe far further than Pluto, going out to millions of
light years; picking up signals which might have been trans-
mitted, deliberately or inadvertently, before the beginnings of
man himself. Every sound was analysed and stored. Every
single bleep from any sector of the “visible” universe was put
away in the great banks of the ISCC computers, constantly
analysing, comparing, cross-checking, looking for similarities,
and life.
Occasionally something would come in and cause a hiatus
of enthusiasm. It might be a sensible sound from a million
years away, relating some intelligence, perhaps long since
dead. It would justify the vast sums of money spent on it, but
a million years to catch a message meant two million years to
reply. Nevertheless they always did, with the same words every
time. It read: “This is planet Earth sound tranception at the
Bermuda Triangle, Sola System, Milky Way Galaxy (fine ad-
dress). We have received your message, we welcome contact.
We are biped, intelligent to life in the universe and search for
greater knowledge. Please contact. Please contact.”
And so it would go. A long-distance call that might at best
take ten millennia to be heard and another ten to get back an
answer. But man was confident of his future and imagine the
thrill in two million years when you got back the answer...
“Speak up, we have a bad line.”
Coming down to Earth, at the helm of the ISCC was one
man. A long experienced communications technician, Jeff
=Ts
 THE CABAL 133
_ Fletcher oversaw all the units and carried the responsibility for
any sound fed through the system.
He was a placid man, not prone to quick reaction, and
generally one to put the dampers on “alien messages” thrust
at him on scraps of paper or played back from the computer
by flushed technicians. He had heard most sounds. He knew
his bleeps from his blunders and no one would con Jeff “the
Gaffer” Fletcher into believing a load of static was “come up
and see us sometime”. Andromeda style. That was why he’d
been there for forty years. He was one of the few men in the
_USAP with a full time, twelve hours a day job. All his tech-
nicians were half-day workers like everyone else, but Jeff could
work twenty-four hours at a stretch and no one would object.
He was unique.
At midnight on July 3rd, in his offices, on Florida Beach
“The Gaffer’ was still at work. Beside him sat the night’s
- second-shift technician for the area of space round Earth known
as the Iono-sector. His task was to scan this section during the
five-hour working shift and watch out for... anything.
The Gaffer was briefing him, prior to his shift.
“O.K. Tanner, tomorrow is bloody ‘C’ day, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Gaffer, God help us all.”
“Hm... you’ll be out of here by then... but I want all the
preparations completed for the morning shift...O.K.?”
“Right, Gaffer.”
“That means 50 per cent of the Iono-sector receptors go on
ground duty.”
“Yes, Gaffer.”
“And 50 per cent on Mars, right?”
“Right, Gaffer, so everything’s off Iono-sector?”
“That’s the instruction, they want everything on the fun and
games. The heavens can do without us for a few days.”
“Boring.”
“Yes, well, the whole bloody shooting match’ll be over
within a couple of weeks and then you can go back to star-
gazing.”
“O:K. Chief. =.”
“T’1l be around invhalf an hour...”
_ Tanner left the room.
The Gaffer spoke to the remaining midnight shift and set
134 Philip Dunn
off on his tour of the reception units. It was a part of his duty
he enjoyed. There was nothing he didn’t know, never a question
he could not answer. Very few items of real note ever came.
in from any part of the vast area at his finger-tips, but there
was always that slight expectation.
He stopped at Tanner’s scanner which now began its turn
away from the Iono-sector, down to Earth.
He put on a pair of head-phones without disturbing the
operator’s concentration and listened to the sounds that flashed
past the receptor in its slow movement.
The sounds he heard were all familiar, squawks and rustles-
that meant all was normal. He was about to remove the phones,
quietly, so as not to disturb the progress of the technician when
he heard a sound that was not so normal.
It was a tap; a single solid tap that came from an area of
space where the Gaffer knew there was nothing but debris and
silenced equipment. It could have been a fake sound, bounced
from Earth, off a piece of debris and then back down again
to the ISCC building. It happened, but it would have to be
checked. The Gaffer tapped Bootsy on the shoulder and he
jumped. “Stop the arc, this one, the new Earth arc, stop it.”
Tanner’s hand flashed across the board and the arc description
ceased abruptly. He did not question the Gaffer’s instructions,
he knew better.
“Take it back three degrees.” Tanner’s hands moved again
and brought the scanner back.
“Keep the angle instated, no linea change, just back through
that arc...” It took twenty seconds more.
There vwas no sound there any more.
“Volume, give me more volume.” The Gaffer searched his
head for sound, wondering maybe whether the noise had been
a “fader” that might return. It did not.
“Open out the scan, five degrees on the linear arc.”
Nothing.
“O.K., run the tapes back three minutes.”
Tanner obeyed. The jibbering static and flash came over the
external speakers and all the technicians in the room listened
eagerly.
“Stop.”
The playback began and the same sound yaes at the air.

ti
 THE CABAL 135

“Back again, slow to 15.”

The sound was repeated, but to the less-experienced ear it
was still merely a jabber, lasting maybe a millisecond.
“Down to 19.” This time the sound was longer, maybe half
a second.
“Now 4.5” And once more. -A full second this time. It was
not a bounced freak sound. It was a transmitted noise, a fraction
of a moment of transmitted message, an instruction sent from
outside the atmosphere across space between Mars and Earth.
“Bring that portion to my office...loop it and give me a
swop recording of it down to ten drops...O.K.?”
“Yes, Gaffer.” Tanner replayed the loop across two ma-
chines and reduced the speed right down until it groaned.
He took it to the Gaffer’s office and they fed it through the
computer analyser. The machine they used to decipher sound
was called the “adding machine” or audio dictating decipher
and it would take a sound to pieces, wave by wave.
There was silence as the machine did its work and then it
clicked ready. It spoke in the ageless voice so familiar to the
Gaffer. “Pattern of audio reception relates to intelligent life
transmission. Distance 247,000 miles, arc of transference at
point of reception, 0.005 seconds of one degree. This quotient
extending 0.0003 of one second time. Range of sounds limited
on high-scale deferential frequency. Code deciphers unrelated
to recorded references. This computer carries no terms of ref-
erence beyond quoted definitions.”
The machine stopped.
“Damn.” The Gaffer cursed and touched off the clattering
of the equipment that had aided him in discovering nothing.
“Well, at least it told us there’s something out there that
shouldn’t be.”
“Hmph, I could have told us that and I don’t cost ten million
a minute.”
“Is that it then?” asked Tanner, disappointed.
“Yes, that’s it, except I’ll have to put in a report. O.K.
Tanner, get back to work. But keep a five per cent scan on
that area of space, will you. Put the rest where they should
pe.”
“Will do, Gaffer.” And Tanner slouched from the room.
The Gaffer called his old buddy, Inspector Haarlem. Dutch
136 Philip Dunn

was still listening on Pinball when the call came through.

“What is it, Fletch?”
“We’ve picked up a signal, Dutch, I thought you might like
to know about it before I put in a formal.”
‘What kind of signal?”
“Don’t know for sure, the computer came up blank with
analysis but it’s alive, we know that.”
“What about the Mars boys on their way down? Couldn’t
it be a stray ship out, stretching its legs?”
“No... we’ve got all their frequencies on an auto-blank out,
the computer picks them up but automatically justifies. We
don’t even hear them unless they’re on distress.”
“So? What’s the idea?” Dutch was half listening, but his
one ear did not miss anything.
“Difficult.”
““Oh come on, you old bastard, you must have something
in that dust-infested space capsule you call a head, or you
wouldn’t have called me. Spit it out.”
“Tt’s in code, Dutch.”
Yes?"
“A code we don’t have on our circuits.”
“Possible?”
“No. . . this litte number here has an infinite coding system.
Its route base is mathematically complete, through infinity back
to infinity. There are no gaps.”
“But you said it didn’t have the answer to this code.”
“The only way it could be without an answer is if a different
set of maths was in use.”
“You’ve lost me there, how can infinite maths be different
from the set you’ve got?”
“Theoretically it can’t, our maths and our infinity are sup-
posed to be universal, but. . . well, I’ve always had this private
theory of my own.”
“Which is?”
“You once showed me a police report on a fellow you’d
been trying to catch and I asked you about the four letters
printed at the end of his TCID readings.”
Dutch knew what was coming. “Yes?”
“They said E.N.A./O. if I remember right and when I asked
what they meant you said... alien.”
—_
>
 THE CABAL 137
Dutch drew in a deep breath and let out a sigh.
“Dutch?”
“Yes, I’m still here, just getting a fag.”
“That is what you meant, isn’t it? Alien? From outer space?”
“That’s exactly what I meant.”
“T mean, there are stories all the time, everyone knows some
story about aliens on Earth, it’s half funny really... kind of
a joke... like the old Irish jokes.”
“Stop gaffing, Gaffer, and get on with the point, what’s all
this leading up to?”
“Physics. You see there are two kinds of infinity nowadays.
One of them relates to our immediate surroundings, you know,
the infinity of applied maths, the infinity the lab techs, and
paper maths boys love to talk about. Then there’s the theo-
reticians’ infinity, that’s a different ball game altogether.”
“T’m still in so far, but I have a feeling you’re about to lose
me again.”
“No, I'll keep it simple. Theoretical physics says that in the
universe there is an infinity that’s really infinite...in other
words it really does go on for ever... without end.”
“Amen.”
“No, listen...this is serious stuff...there is no ending
or beginning to the infinite of theoretical physics whereas in
applied science infinity is a curve, the graph of infinity comes
round back again to near the start. That’s so’s the boys in the
labs can sleep at night. But the theoreticians don’t mind in-
somnia.-So they sit up with their cups of coffee and they debate
the forever. Now in the forever, everything is forever, there
are a forever number of things...coincidences, languages,
planets, effects, stars, people like us...there are an infinite
number of Dutch’s and Gaffers.”
“My God.”
“And an infinite number of mathematical systems.”
“Ah-ha.”
“Yes, here there is one set of mathematical rules that suit
us and that we think is forever and out there are billions more,
all equally viable and all different.”
“But that’s only a theory.”
“The E.N.A./O.’s aren’t though.”
_ “T see what you mean.”
138 Philip Dunn
“Do you?”
“It's .crazys.2
“What about the Bermuda Triangle, that’s crazy too.”
“I was just thinking the same thing...”
“I mean, there must have been millions of people lost around
these parts, that’s why ISCC was put here in the first place,
just because everyone’s forgotten about it for a while doesn’t
mean it’s gone away, does it?”
“Do you think there are aliens out there snatching us humans
off our planet every now and again?” ‘
“Huh, when you put it like that it sounds ridiculous.”
“But then again, there are other things too.”
“Other things?”
“Hm...O.K. Gaffer, thanks.”
\ “What do you mean thanks...is that all I get for my
trouble?” '
“For the moment yes, and remember something...”
“What, you stingy bastard?”
“You’re under Statute secrecy, so keep your gob shut.”
“Chee...” He cut contact.
Dutch was still in the dark but there were a few glints.

* * *

The World Confederation of Armed Forces had launched their

proposed attack from the planet Mars three days before July
4th. The ships could cross the 34,000,000 miles between Mars
and Earth in 75 hours and 34 minutes, at 450,000 miles per
hour. Their take-off was completed at 18:26 precisely on June
30th 2420.
At midnight on July 3rd the 400 ships were approaching
their Earth orbit, as planned, and the Commander of Opera-
tions, General Chief of Staff, Commander Sir Harold F. Pitz-
burg, DFC, VC (bore) sat at his post on the control deck of
the flagship “Invasion”. He was an imposing figure, in full
regalia during the entire descent, perhaps a trifle too full. His
paunchy, ageing body had, in recent years, sought more the
action reserved for planners and administrators than active duty
officers. He didn’t like space flight any more, not at the best
of times and felt that his days of racing about in invasion
 THE CABAL 139

vessels should have been over a long time ago.

But he was the one with the longest string of dongs to his
name, even though all dongs these days were honorary, and
- he was the one the authorities on Earth would least have minded
losing to Mars, or Space, or a faulty landing gear. In any event
his record was faultless, his integrity unblemished and his brain
small.
For Commander Pitzburg, flying through 34,000,000 miles
of space was like riding a buggy along the beach, quite un-
remarkable. His imagination didn’t stretch outside the portholes
of the launch and no poetic inclination stood in the way of his
judgement, such as it was. He was not prone to the posing of
philosophical questions regarding man’s place in the universe
and once when watching the approaches of planet Earth after
a long tour of the outer regions of the sola system he was heard
to comment. “God, which one is this.”
Planets were.all the same, stars were pricks of light and a
vacuum was something you didn’t swim in without a space-
suit.
None of the vagaries of science-fiction for the Commander.
He slept sound at night and he showered three times a day. He
consumed a plate of egg and bacon for breakfast with a large
glass of. pure orange juice. He wore starched collars, a batch
of medals and his trousers were razor pressed. His hands were
tanned with the correct number of blonde hairs on the back,
his eyes were steel grey and his hair perfectly groomed. He
spoke ten fluent languages and could tell you the time of day,
_ or night, without looking at his watch.
Twenty-five years ago he could have been mistaken for
Captain Starship, Doc Savage or Flash Gordon, then he loved
it, then everyone looked upon him as a superman. Now he
hated it and now they all yawned at his talk.
But this was a serious operation and he had to put up with
it, whether he liked it or not.
“Commander... we are now in Earth’s orbit...”
“Right, keep observation . . . await landing instructions. . .”
Goddamn it, when would they get down on safe Earth again.
“Sir?”
“Yes.” The Commander was dragged out of his reverie once
more.
 140 Philip Dunn

“You mentioned, sir, that once we were in orbit you would

not object to a minimum staff, sir...”
“You mean there’s some bloody party going on out there?”
“Well, sir, sort of, sir, yes.”
“O.K. piss off all of you...but make bloody sure that if
I sound the alarm you get back here right away.”
“Yes, sir, of course, sir, you can count on us.” And they
were gone.
“The whole bloody thing runs itself anyway, why should
I worry.” He had absolutely no intention of joining the screwing
party at the back of the launch. Mildred might find out . . . Mildred
probably would find out anyway. ..anyway he was past all
that.
His eyes drifted across the space monitor screens dotted
about the control room. A few of them showed the following
craft and he would occasionally see Earth with its colorful hue
as it slid on to a screen and then off again during their axial
revolution.
Then he saw: something he did not expect. Something was
darkening a screen to his left. His eyes flashed to it. It was
unfamiliar. His brain told him it should not be there. It wasn’t
Earth or a moon view. It wasn’t one of his craft; too big.
The thoughts rushed through his head as his eyebrows knit-
ted together in complete puzzlement. In a move, after what
_ could not have been more than three seconds thought, he leaped
to his feet. The move was faster than anything he had made
for years and he rushed at the panel, punched a record button
and fell over the instruments. As he went, crashing through
the chairs and tables between him and his purpose he saw that
the image was that of a vast spaceship. It did not quite fill the
screen. But damn nearly. It was so enormous that the Com-
mander felt a lump hit the roof of his mouth. Its shape was
long and very thin, elegant and devastatingly sinister, the most
darkly sinister craft he had ever imagined.
It was grey and for real, quite unlike the flying saucer shapes
of the Mars-Earth invasion force, deliberately shaped that way,
all part of the ridiculous joke. This was different, very real,
nothing at all fake about this baby, on the contrary it was
utterly authentic, disturbing, even to the dull imagination of
Pitzburg and so bloody huge it almost filled the screen.
 THE CABAL 141

But it was fading. With a terrible realization he saw that

he was not going to make the record button. All this bloody
trauma and he wasn’t going to have any proof...“God, you
bastard stay there. . . for Christ’s sake.” He bellowed at the top
of his rusty voice.
At the very moment when he was about to pounce on the
button he caught sight of some symbol on the side of the
craft ... most of it was simply unidentifiable hieroglyphics but
there were two words that made sense. “Calm-Earth.” They
said “Calm-Earth”. There was no doubt. He crashed down on
the video record button with the full force of his body, just as
the image slipped away as though a blind had been drawn. As
though piloted out of his own dimension into another it faded
into a mist and was gone. And gone, he knew, forever.
“Fuck.” He cursed volubly, but no impact was made on the
revelling crew.
“Fuck, what do I do...they’ll never believe me... must
have a look, see how much I got.” He touched the replay
controls to get the video recording synchronised again, crossing
his fingers, wishing like hell that there was something of that
symbol he had seen on tape. But there wasn’t. As always there
was less than he hoped. Life was like that for Commander
Pitzburg. es
On the replay all that he saw was a scrap of the last faded,
misty departure of a fuzzy image that could surely be anything,
a space storm, a flashing meteorite, a piece of distorted debris
rushing past the ship, anything but what he knew it to be. It
was truly an unidentified flying object, a UFO, an alien ship
in the region of the “Invader”. But how the hell was he to
prove it, unless, unless. ..he could catch it again.
He began a mad rush about the control consoles, set up the
screens to maximum aperture... taking in as much space as
he could. Commander Pitzburg was more frenzied than in any
part of his youth. His mind raced, his body sweated like he
would die if he didn’t find what he wanted. His future relied
upon finding that bloody craft again. If he could show Earth
authorities that sharpness of his sense, the alertness of his mind
they might take more notice of him, he might go out in a blaze
of glory, be appointed to a high commission instead of being
"put out to graze. He had to find it, he had to. But he didn’t.
142 Philip Dunn

Try as he did, flailing about the panels, cutting one screen

across another, magnifying, reducing, changing the angles,
parallaxing, changing rotation, still nothing, fucking nothing.
He slumped back into his seat, utterly forlorn. The awful
frustration of seeing something so obviously real to be left with
a blurred smudge. They wouldn’t care a damn, worse, they
would laugh. It was just old Pitzburg making a fool of himself
again...ho ho, what a joke. He played back the recording
again. It had not improved. It was still too indistinct to mean
anything. Even after enlargement of the very early parts of the
recording there was nothing that made any sense. But he had
to report it. He had to give it a chance, risk ridicule, have a
bloody go.
He touched the ship to Earth control to connect him with
ISCC. The reaction was instantaneous.
“Technician controller please, is the Gaffer there?” A silly
question.
“Hold, Commander,” came the reception voice on Earth.
A second or two passed and the Gaffer’s familiar voice
came on the line.
“Pitzy, what you up to, blown a fuse or something, don’t
tell me you’re going to be late?”
“Shove it, Gaff, I’ve seen something up here.”
“What?” The Gaffer’s voice hardened. He had known Pitz-
burg for almost as long as he’d been a technician. They were
both part of the old network of pros that scattered the working
levels of the planet. Dutch was another in the gang. The Earth
really was a small place now. They met almost every month —
in a downtown New York bar to contemplate their various -
miseries.
“I know it isn’t going to be easy to_prove, Gaff, but I saw
a fucking great spaceship...bigger than anything I’ve ever
seen before, so big it filled a whole screen.”
“Did you get it on tape?” Gaffer asked the question with
his fingers firmly crossed. |
“Only a scrap. . . it stayed there for a full three seconds but
I only got to the record button as it began to disappear behind
some cloaking device. I got the last fuzz and that’s all.” ;
“Why weren’t you on permanent record, Pitz, or what about
 THE CABAL 143

your crew, aren’t they helping you steer that crazy dish?”
“Don’t let’s go into that now, it’s as much as I can do to
keep any of these bastards from jumping out of the ports... I’m
on my own in the control unit. ..I couldn’t get to the bloody
button fast enough and they’d left the place without turning
on the auto-record.”*
“Christ, Pitz, when are you going to learn?”
“Shut up, Gaffer, I didn’t call you up to get a bloody lecture
on duty rota, I called to tell you I saw a fucking alien space-
craft... out here, in Earth orbit .. . what the hell are you going
to do about it?”
“Have you been on that stuff as well?”
“No, you son of a bitch, I haven’t.” Pitzburg found himself
shouting down the transceiver unit. If he couldn’t make an old
buddy believe him what chance anyone else?
“Alright, alright, relay the recording you have down here
and I'l run it through the adding machine.”
“Good, that’s more like it...hold on, I’ll set it up.”
The operation took all of five minutes and the Gaffer had
the goods. It was 12:52 precisely, the morning of July 4th.

At 12:58 the Gaffer called Pitzburg back, but only to ask a

question. “Give me a drop on the ship’s position at the time
of the recording Pitz.” He did so, wondering why on Earth he
should need to know where the thing was, what possible dif-
ference could it make, unless he had made more of it than
Pitzburg had. He twiddled his thumbs in anticipation.

At 01:13 the reception unit crackled into life and the Gaffer’s
voice sounded as his face appeared.
“Well, Pitz, it looks as though you may have found some-
thing.”
“What for Chrissakes, tell me.”
“About twenty minutes ago one of our boys down here
_ picked up a stray transmission, nothing we could be sure of,
~ but it came from an intelligent source. The message, which
lasted for no more than a millisecond, was scrambled into a
“code we don’t have on record. We can’t decode it but your
__ image was spotted at exactly the same time and from the same
‘
mre
144 Philip Dunn
source as our audio reception. We heard it at 12:28 and your
video is timed at 12:285. It ties up. They were in the same _
place too.”
“Well, what are you waiting for, we’re about to be invaded
for real, Gaff.”
“Tt isn’t as easy as that, we can’t prove anything, only that
there was an indistinguishable sighting and an inaudible signal.
Neither have any particular significance except they happen
at the same moment in the same place.”
“Christ, Gaffer, isn’t that enough?”
“Hardly, there are thousands of projectiles in space at any
one time and to add to the confusion there are 400 of your
ships up there in the region of the receptions you claim are
alien ships. It could have been anything.”
“That’s what the desk boys say, what do you think?”
“T don’t know, Pitz, I don’t know.”
“Oh, come on man, you must have some idea. . . you heard
it, I saw it.”
“T think it’s an alien ship...but...”
“But what? What buts can there be, there are two of us,
Gaffer, both experienced space technicians, both too long in
the tooth to be playing silly games, isn’t that good enough to
convince them?”
“On the night of the Carnival? Twelve hours before they
cut the tape to start the fun and games, from a spaceship with
one Commander in his seat and all the rest screwed silly in the
galley. Can you imagine what they’d think, Pitz? Theyed think
it was April fools day, I’m not risking my job just to be told
I’m drinking too much, I don’t know about you, but there’s
too much at stake for me.”
“God, you stupid bastard, what can J do? I’m stuck up here
with this bunch, I can’t even get at the big boys. You’ve got
to do it. What the hell will you feel like if there really is
something up here?”
There was silence from the Gaffer’s end and then Pitzburg
heard a heavy sigh and the face returned to the screen.
“TIl tell you what, I'll talk to Dutch.”
“Oh God, he’ll just laugh...”
“No, I told him about the transmission and he said some-
thing about ‘other things’.”
t
 THE CABAL : 145
“What other things?” Pitzburg sat up.
“He wouldn’t say, I’ll talk to him, I’ll show him the re-
cording and call you back with the result. . . Tight?”
Pitzburg sighed in return.
“O.K., but for Chrissakes make it quick, will you?”
“T'll come back as soon as I can...in the meantime pull
that ship together and take it easy, transmission ends.”

Dutch was told. Dutch was very puzzled, but Dutch was not
a man to wait and see...
The time was 01:20, July 4th 2420.

Malet,
ah
©
 wa

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Double Dutch

“T want three hundred doffers around space port 9, Manhattan

sector, tough men...not those new recruits you brought
in. ..no one is allowed in or out of that space port for the next
two days. Then send me up your five biggest men, to my office
now.” Dutch lit another cigarette. Three minutes later five of
the biggest, ugliest thugs you ever saw bulged into his door.
“Right you foul-looking lot, I’ve got a job for you, a very
special job. On 42nd Street and Madison there’s an old hotel
called the Beckly...on the 38th floor is room number 343,
got that? Make bloody sure you get the right room... 343,
38th floor, Beckly Hotel. In that room is one Pinball, well
known to us all. I want him brought here at once, quicker than
I can spit in your eyes, and listen, there’s a police sergeant in
there with him...a woman police sergeant. ..make sure she
gets out alive. I don’t care a fuck if you spill your own blood —
on the grimy carpets but you don’t spill a drop of hers or
Pinball’s. I want him here, alive and conscious. ..now get
going.”
“Bradly, get up here fast.” Dutch had dispatched the doffers
and picked up the phone all in one wave of his hand.
; 146
 THE CABAL 147

Bradly arrived seconds later.

“Yes, Inspector.”
“There are three members of the Cabal coming into town
from Geneva. They’ll be on a scheduled flight, pick them up,
anyhow, just be sure you get them all. Bring them here and
slap them in clink. And take a few men with you, Faction’s
one of them. For Gad’s sake don’t let him go berserk anywhere
public, we’re going to have enough broken bones on our hands
in the next twenty-four hours. When you’ve got that in hand
go to Scotland...you yourself...take one doffer and find
Vandal and a small girl... Holly, Faction’s daughter. Jabber
~ will give you the address. I want them both back here safe.
Vandal’s not so important but I must have Holly, safe and
sound. Take some toys and sweets with you. Make her com-
fortable .. . I need a carrot to prize a crook. Now have you got
all that?”
“Yes, Inspector.”
“Good.”
“Good, now piss off.”
Once Sergeant Bradly had gone Dutch began a frantic ti-
dying session. He wanted a clear space on the other side of
his desk. Pinball needed space for interrogation and Dutch was
going to interrogate him, how he was going to interrogate him!
Now doffers were not known for their intelligence and the
five sent to bring back the brains of the Cabal were as thick
as ten short planks. On the other hand, it isn’t any too easy
to get out of a 38th-floor hotel room in. Manhattan, by the
window, especially after screwing Sergeant Ghent every half
hour for most of the evening. ;
So, when Pinball heard the thunder in the corridor he pulled
_ his pants on as quick as he could and grabbed a blaster.
The first doffer, not one to announce his arrival by knocking,
brought a vast shoulder to bear against the door. The five chain-
locks and electronic security systems that lined every hotel
room entrance gave immediately, flying in all directions.
Superman’s entrance was re-enacted there. The splintering
shards of wood were thrown across every part of the room as
‘the hulk of doffer emerged from out to in.
Inside, his blaster raised to shoulder level, Pinball saw the
giant move through the enfeebled door like some great tank

a
148 Philip Dunn
travelling at break-neck speed. A slow-motion camera would
have captured the most dramatic effect and all could have
screamed with delight on a motion replay after the event.
The doffer cried a cry of war as he plummeted towards
Pinball’s tensed figure. The doffers knew Pinball. They knew
his craft and his strength. They knew his martial skills and his
terrible rock hard fist. None of them planned to die at his hands
on this occasion. All four followed the first one, jamming the
entrance with their bulk.
Sergeant Ghent had done her job well, for the blaster in
Pinball’s hand did not fire. Pinball turned in the split second
between the failure of his weapon (the first that evening) and
the instantaneous decision to abandon it and gave her a look
that shivered every cell in her elegant body.
He had maybe three seconds to do the most essential thing
before they took him. He grabbed for a small black box that
had sat undisturbed, but constantly under Pinball’s eye, all
evening. He lifted it, slid back the top surface with his thumb
and-touched a control inside. Then he raced for the open win-
dow, leaned out and hurled the box on to the roof of the
adjacent building. It landed and smashed to pieces.
That done, he could now turn his attention to the job in
hand. With a smooth sweep of his one strong arm he brought
the butt of the dead blaster down on to the neck of the still
crashing doffer. The fellow crumpled under the blow, falling
at Pinball’s feet. The next two, tightly squeezed into the door-
way were heaved bodily through it, their hands jammed to- |
gether by the mighty blow of their aggressor. Pinball grabbed
at one of them, limp and semi-conscious, lifted him bodily
with one arm and threw the 600 kilos at the last two as they
entered.
This act merely blocked the doorway further and prevented
Pinball’s immediate exit. He turned for a moment to see Ser-
geant Ghent aiming a blaster at his back. With one twist of his
gammy arm he swept the weapon from her hand and sent it
clattering under the well-honored bed. The two fallen doffers
were up and at him by then and with one full strength arm,
stronger than four of any other in the room he struck at them.
The blows that fell were like iron bar hits. The density of that
mighty fist was greater than solid ebony and the kinetic energy |
 THE CABAL 149

thrust through was like the pounding of a rushing truck face.

One’ doffer keeled over under the impact and the other made
the mistake of grabbing Pinball in what he imagined to be a
full Nelson. The tactician of the Cabal may have suffered from
a withered arm but his shoulders were weakened by no such
impediment. With magnificent force he closed the shoulder
width with a huge pull, dragging the arms of the clutching
doffer together and breaking the right one with a resounding
snap.
The doffer fell away cradling the broken limb to his chest,
howling like a beaten dog. By this time the other two fallen
policemen were recovered enough to realize that all the stories
about this giant man were not an exaggeration. But they knew,
too, the wrath of their senior Inspector and the alternatives
were few. They both leaped on Pinball at once and with the
combined werght attempted to floor him. It didn’t work. He
remained on his feet, carrying the huge mass of their bodies
on his shoulders. He grabbed at one flailing hand and bit into
the fleshy palm. The doffer screeched and toppled from his
lofty perch, blood rushing from the wound. The second
pounded his enemy from above, beating at the bald head with
healthy and resounding punches. Pinball took the ugly doffer’s
head and twisted it. Another attacker hit the dust and Pinball
stood, for a moment, among the five fallen doffers.
Slightly taken aback that it should be so easy, he made the
mistake of hesitating. Then he stepped forward, making for
the exit. He looked up towards the door and was greeted by
Sergeant Ghent who had retrieved the blaster and stood, still
quite naked, with the gun in both hands, blocking his escape
route.
“Fuck,” Pinball gestured to her to get clear but she stood
her trembling ground.
‘T...1...don’t want to hurt you...I don’t want to hurt
you... you’re too nice...” Pinball banked on that, sentiment
and moved another step towards her. She cocked the weapon
‘and began closing the contact. Her duty was evidently not
going to be beaten by her feelings.
“You wouldn’t,” Pinball tried.
“Yes, I would...I have to.”
“Damn and blast you... after this evening...”
 o
150 Philip Dunn
as)(es ae
“Curse you, then.” He rushed her and for once in his life
had a doffer to thank for his life. Sergeant Ghent pressed the
contact on the gun and fired a thick blast of atomic fire, aimed-
at Pinball’s chest. But his foot was caught in the broken arm
of the fallen doffer. There was a cry of agony from the floor
and Pinball went down on top of it.
The blast shafted over his head and disintegrated the window
behind him.
“Christ you lousy bitch, you nearly...” But the last word
was stifled by three, whole doffers who piled on top of his
body with one accord, at last, with some success.

“Well, well... what have we here?” Pinball seemed, as al-

ways, the least marked of the preceding fray, as he sat in the
chair provided for him in Dutch’s office.
“You'll have to get that female sergeant of yours to teach
those doffers a few lessons. If it hadn’t been for her I wouldn’t
be here now.”
“I’m sure she’ll appreciate your commendation. I trust you
enjoyed the service we provided for your pleasure?”
“Yes, as doffers go, she wasn’t at all bad.” They sat facing
one another in silence for a moment. Dutch waved the crest-
fallen doffers from the room.
“IT wouldn’t recommend any attempt to escape from this
place, Pinball, there are too many odds stacked against you.
Even with your good fortune.”
“Huh, we’ll see about that.” Pinball knew that Dutch didn’t
like uncertainty, he liked to have everything neat and tidy.
“Now ... I’ve been hearing things in the last few hours to
~ make me feel decidedly uncomfortable and I thought maybe
you and I could have a little chat to clear some of them up.
There are a few missing pieces to my puzzle, you see.” He
shuffled papers on his bedraggled desk.
“Come on then, Dutch, tell me what you know ace
surprise me.’
“One, I know that something’s going on around these parts
that shouldn’t be and that you and your mates are involved.
I have therefore transferred to this office from London on a
more permanent basis..
 THE CABAL 151

“Good start, Dutch, good start.” As Pinball spoke the phone

beside the Inspector buzzed. Dutch touched the contact and the
face of Sergeant Bradly appeared on the screen.
“Yes, Bradly, success?”
“We've got Faction and Weekold, sir, but Roatax is away.”
“Damn it man, what do you mean away?”
“Just that, sir, she escaped the net and we’re trying to track
her but there are crowds gathering at the arrival ports of most
New York docks, she slipped into a large group of Carnival
arrivals and disappeared.”
“Well find her for Chrissakes, find her if you have to get
half the bloody force out. You have to get them all or you’ve
wasted your time... how about the Kid?”
“T’m calling from Scotland now, sir, we got Holly but Van-
dal was gone before we arrived.”
“Ch...O.K., never mind about him, bring the child back
and put her with Faction. Make them comfortable, but don’t
let them out of your sight. Now go get Roatax...”
The screen faded.
“So you’re rounding us up, are you?”
“Yes, Pinball, I know you’re behind something and the
fewer of you loose the greater chance I have of stopping what-
ever it is. Now, what have you got sailing about in space that
I should know about?” Pinball was shocked and it showed.
“No, you weren’t expecting that, were you? Well, whatever,
or whoever, it is, it’s not too careful about its cloaking devices.
We’ve picked up an audio signal and a sighting. We know
there’s a craft orbiting Earth at about two hundred kilometers.
“Now, if you have anything to do with that craft you’d
better let me know right now or I’m going to give orders for
the fake invasion force to change direction and blast it out of
the sky.”
“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”
Pinball reasoned, in the seconds available to him, while
Dutch rambled on, that as he had said they knew there was
“one” craft out there, the signal they had picked up could not
have been very thorough. The chances seemed fairly good that
Dutch was playing a hunch in the faint hope of getting Pinball
to admit to plans thinking that he had actually picked up a
thorough sighting.
152 Philip Dunn

“Why not?”
“Because there is more than one craft out there. ..there’s -
actually four million craft...with ten million people on
board.”
“And you’re the leader I suppose. ..of an inter-galactic
invasion force that is about to land on Earth and take over?”
“That’s about the sum of it, though I wouldn’t flatter myself
and stand as their leader...I am merely the ground contact.”
Dutch nodded his head, half-angry, half-resigned to the
inevitable.
Pinball knew that even if the wily old doffer believed him,
there would be no way of checking the story and the forces
headed down from Mars would certainly not catch up with
Farrago before noon.
“Sometimes, Pinball, you make me sick...”

The three corners of the Bermuda Triangle were complete

now ...the plans were on... and Dutch was deeper in the soup |
than ever.
 CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Let the Carnival Begin

At around 03:00 hours on the morning of July 4th, while Pinball

was being “collected” from his hotel in New York by Dutch’s
minions, there was a sudden movement in Albert Dickleshi-
ner’s shack.
Dickleshiner slept soundly on a thick bundle of dollar bills,
two halves delivered, thirty meters from his workshop. Nothing
was due to happen until 10:30 the following morning and his
heavy snoring body slumbered, no question of waking, should
the ground shake and the mountain crack, Dickleshiner would
sleep on.
The two-meter tall figure inside the shack shifted a svelt
arm, clothed in suit and trench coat, stepped smoothly forward
through the chaos of construction and gently moved various
impediments to his progress. Eventually he reached the door
and opened it. He walked across the rooftop, in absolute silence.
and reached the elevator door. Once inside he dropped to the
ground floor and stepped out into the foyer. The attendant was
asleep and did not hear or see anything pass.
He wore a wide-brimmed hat and his coat was long, to his
knees.
‘” 153
mm!
 ; 5
154 Philip Dunn
His stride was purposeful, and directed uptown, turning
from 22nd Street into Park South. On his way along the street
a doffer vehicle passed and Pinball looked out of the window,
straining between two doffers. He saw the figure, alone on the
walkway and having seen, sat back and relaxed during the rest
of the journey. The figure continued until it reached Times
Square, where it stopped and looked up at the large building
on the far side. He seemed to consider his next move, but not
for long. After only a minute he walked through the square
and crossed to one side of the building, skirting round to the
back.
There were doffers scattered about, all looking a bit sleepy,
mostly strewn in the back of their ground cars. As the figure
approached the back of the building he slipped suddenly to one
side and ducked into a very narrow passage that went half-way
across the back.
He shuffled along the narrow alley until he reached the end
where a wall stretched up the full height of the building. The
wall was smooth, no pipes, footholds or indentations. Unscale-
able without special equipment.
With the aid of a small, tubular laser device he was up the
wall in four minutes, cutting grooves as he went.
Near the top he encountered a window with hardened steel
bars and metal windows behind. Down the center of each bar
ran a wire which he knew would be attached inside to an alarm
system. The entire edge of the window on all four sides was
also lined in similar wiring. There was no practical way in
through this window so he dropped to the footholds one section
down and began burning with the laser into the brickwork
itself. He cut through the sealed edges of the single brick
nearest and most accessible to his position. It took fifteen min-
utes and the brick was loose. The device he used had first cut
through one portion and then he had inserted a small tube. This
he attached to the inside of his coat, seemingly to his chest.
The suction set up through the tube prevented the smoke re-
sulting from the burning brick from passing into the room,’
sucking it out and into the open air.
Eventually the brick came away. He put an arm into the
room through the small aperture and extended it three meters
across the inside to the alarm box. The hand opened the screws

eas
ee
 THE CABAL 155
_ and bolts on the door and took it off. It then removed the fuses
of the window’s alarm and rendered it ineffective.
It was then a simple matter of returning to the window,
bending the steel bars and, with the use of a greased rag,
smashing the metalled window.
He was in. .
Cautiously he opened the door to the corridor and ventured
out. Two meters down was a doffer, armed to the teeth. The
silent android walked up behind the doffer and tapped him on
the shoulder.
“Eh?” said the unsuspecting guard.
“Excuse me...” said the android in a voice that sounded
like he had a bad cold. A single finger was pressed on to a
" pressure zone at the guard’s neck and he went down, silently.
The doffer uniform was donned, the various computer con-
tacts attached and the android looked like a regular Sperm
Reserve guard. He passed eight other doffers without event
and until he approached the floor where his programming di-
rected him. There wasn’t even a whimper through his head-
speakers.
Then it started.
“Doffer Frobitch, you are off limits, what is your purpose?”
The answer came without hesitation. “Request. duty sev-
erence, suffering from head pains.”
“There is no indication of altered patterns on your encephlo,
are you skiving again, Harry?” The android kept walking.
“Well, you got me there, you see it’s like this, Anna, my
- second, she’s been fussing me lately, going on about her latest
kid, never stops nagging me, says she’s going to sue for dep-
rivation or something.”
“Tut, tut, Harry, can’t have you hauled up for neglecting
your spouses, wouldn’t look good on the old record now would
it, anyway, can’t have you going without your oats.” The
_ android kept walking.
“I was kinda wondering whether you might let me have
some compassionate leave... tonight... - you know, calm her
down a bit, the baby’s due in a few days.”
“Wow, Harry, you never told us you were expecting, that’ss
an event these days, can’t let it go unheard, I'll have to tell
_theboys ePout it, sure, Harry, sure you can have some com-
156 Philip Dunn
passionate, three hours, Harry, that should be enough for a
virile young thing like you to get her double pregnant, eh,
”
The android did not reply. Three doors away was the main
entrance to the freezer unit of the main body of the Sperm
Reserve.
“Harry, are you feeling O.K.? You’re headed the wrong
way for the exit, Harry, what’s the matter... Harry?”
The android remained silent. He had reached the door.
“Harry, what are you up to? Harry...have you lost your
touch?”
The calls continued, unheeded. The android pulled out the
cutting tool and applied it to the main lock on the door. A half-
minute cut through and the door was lifted physically off its.
hinges, thrown forward into the vast chamber and the android
entered.
“Harry, fuck you... what the hell. . .?” The voice spluttered
as the alarms started to shriek through the building. “Harry”
did not stop. He plunged into the chamber where the millions
of sperm rested in frozen place, made calmly and swiftly for
the “head plant” and ripped off the block bearing terminals that
controlled the plant serving this section and twelve others.
Five doffers rounded the corner and dashed into the room.
Alarms were crashing all over the place and the head-sets of
the guards were buzzing with instructions. The android’s pos-
itronic brain was awash with massive sonic disruptors, beams
set to blow the top of any human’s brain, but not “Harry’s”.
As the heavy boys moved in to blast the fake doffer off the
face of the Earth he touched the contact with his fingers. The
doffers stopped in their tracks, expecting his body to be melted
by the electrical force inside the control box. But, instead,
there was a bright flash from the terminals and the hand that
gripped them peeled back its skin to show red-hot metal. The
arm took over the burning, the flesh and skin, the doffers
uniform, stripping away like the meat off a cooked turkey. The
ghastly process continued until the entire body was no longer :
even faintly human. Dickleshiner’s android now emerged in
all its glory. A tall silver robot, coated in ten-millimeter thick.
hardened steel. The head was naked, the false flesh burned
a="

THE CABAL 157

- from the surface by the power flashed through the body. There
were no features, only a wide-banded opening with a lid that
opened slowly. From within the cover came a sparkle of light
and as soon as it had drawn clear of the black opening a thick
beam of heat blew a huge hole in the ground where the doffers
stood, aghast at the sight before them.
Hosts more doffers appeared at the door bursting to get
through. The communications system between them had
Stopped since the first ones had reached the scene.
They were too late to do anything. As they watched a sheen
of matt light shifted from the opened “eye” and slid about the
entire body, covering it from head to toe. The great hand was
still jammed into the terminal which had shorted through the
metallic body and welded into place. The body was impene-
trable through the force field without heavy cutting equipment
or the right force combination, neither of which was easily
available. The doffers began to blast at the figure before them
but the atomic beams were absorbed through the outer surface
of the force about it.
“Leave it.. . leave it, you stupid bastards . . .» Dutch screamed
at the top of his voice. The alarm system within the Sperm
Reserve automatically summoned him and he had got across
town in five minutes.
He could not believe his eyes, even his hardened old eyes.
“The bastard, the bastard...” he muttered, cursing Pinball.
“It’s got to be Pinball.”
“No, sir, | don’t think it’s Pinball, I think it’s a robot,”
commented the chief doffer, intelligently.
“Crud...” Dutch observed. “Get that thing off the terminal
and soon.” ;
“Can’t, sir, it’s attached.”
“T can see it’s attached, you lunatic, unattach it.”
“No good, sir, can’t be done.”
“You mean to tell me that with all this equipment. . . all the
hardware in this place you can’t shift a chunk of metal from
a fuse-box?”
“The chunk of metal is now fused to the fuse-box, sir, it’s
part of the circuit . . . it’s geared in. If we blow it off the terminal
‘it will break the circuit and the freezer unit will stop working.
the
158 Philip Dunn

That will leave us with a billion or so dead sperm.”

“Oh, Christ.” Dutch left the Sperm Reserve and headed for
Pinball’s new home.

“Pinball you bastard... Pinball, where are you, you bastard.”

Dutch burst into the cell area of the Park South headquarters
where Pinball was immured, cursing at the top of his voice.
The prisoner backed against the wall, in fear for his life.
“You’ve done it now, you great ugly bastard, if you think
I'm going to let you get away with this one you’re bloody
wrong ds. dec2h. uk?
Dutch gave up.
“What’s up, doc?”
“God, I should take the fucking law into my own hands
.. that’s the only way justice will get done. . . |suppose you’re
going to try and talk your way out of this now, are you? Well,
I ain’t listening. I ain’t gonna stay here and listen to you any
more... you can keep your silver-tongued shit Pinball... as
far as I’m concerned you can stay here and fester until the
Carnival is well and truly over. I’ve got my hands full enough
without having to go through a chat show with you...and
your fucking robot can stay put too. He’s just propping up the
electrics ...so fuck you both...” And Dutch left the cell, Pin-
ball standing inside it and a dozen doffers outside, all with
their mouths open.
But Pinball knew why the robot was there. It had arrived
a bit early but that didn’t matter. The time for its special Gui
had not changed.
He sat down, happily, for the rest of the night. The day was
going to be a busy one. Roatax would be along soon.

* * *

The giant entrance to the United States of American Protec-

torates Carnival in New York was packed. With its huge com-
memorative globe perched on the high podium and the 60,000
square meters of names on the engraved floor, it had made an
impressive entrance to the largest single Carnival effort in the
world.
Now there were 175,000 people on that engraved floor,
 THE CABAL 159
crammed into every square centimeter of space.
At 11:30 hours on July 4th they had been squashing their
way into the Carnival for six hours. There was no queueing,
all entrance was-staggered and pre-booked to avoid a crush,
but a crush there had been nevertheless.
The stalls were occupied by their owners, the shows were
ready to start, the parties had brought their booze and stacked
their food, the people were itching to get their hands on all the
free goodies provided by the State.
On the side of Earth away from the sun, massive floodlights
were set up to be sure that all Carnivals began at the same
time. For the first time in history it was to be 12 noon at exactly
the same hour everywhere.
Across the entrance to the Carnival was a white tape and
beside it a soft white cushion with silver scissors on it. The
President of the USAP countries would draw up in a huge
Cadillac, and, flanked by a dozen security men, would walk
to the tape, cut it, return to his car and go home, quick!
Nobody wanted speeches, but the ceremonious opening was
vital, for the ribbon in New York was connected by interna-
tional transmission to every other Carnival, large or small, on
the planet. A million ticker-tapes would be released, falling
through every square centimeter of air around the city. Three
hundred million voices would cheer around the world, and, all
the authorities hoped, a few of those three hundred million
underpopulated people would make an extra effort during the
next couple of weeks to make it four hundred million. A great
effort, a massive effort, the biggest anti-contraceptive, get-in-
there-and-fuck-like-hell-effort the world had ever known.

In his dingy cell, Pinball sat. Weekold was next doar Holly
and her delighted father were locked and guarded in a plush
Hilton Hotel room on 6th Avenue and Roatax and Vandal were
undiscovered.
Farrago was set, like a hungry eagle, ready to swoop down,
and so were the crazy, drug-filled, booze-infested Martian in-
- vaders with poor old Pitzburg, his head still just above water.
Dutch supervised the biggest single security effort he had
* known, to keep death and destruction to a minimum, doing his
best to forget that Vandal and Roatax were roaming free and
7%
160 Philip Dunn

that “fucking robot”. The Gaffer watched his screens at the

ISCC, more or less deserted by the technical staff.
All set to go... 11:45 hours.
11:46, 11:47, 11:48, 11:49... the sky lit up.
“They’re bloody early...” someone shouted from the
crowd.
Dutch cursed, Pinball leaned against his window, trying to
catch some indication of what was happening and Roatax
shifted as close as she could to Space port 9, Manhattan Central.
There was a huge blast in the hot air above the crowds.
11:53, 11:54, 11:55, 11:56... another crash of what looked
like lightning and cheers of disdain from all and sundry.
11:57, 11:58...another flash, and someone sighted a
ship ...a flying saucer.
“Here they come, stupid bastards...” 11:59...
“Cut the fucking tape.” A security man ushered the President
towards the ribbon and a member of the immediate wae
audience shouted the instruction.
12 noon... July 4th 2420. The tape was cut, the ballads
went up and forty-six of the 400 flying-saucers seared into
view above the tall buildings of New York City.
All hell broke loose as the first landed and regurgitated its
bemused contents. The ships that carried the men from Mars
were about thirty meters across and automatically piloted to
land in fixed positions where people had theoretically been
kept clear.
Five men and women were blasted into a hundred pieces —
by the first landing and several more died before the first force
was down. But nobody seemed to care or indeed notice. The
soldiers of the Confederation burst out of the spaceships and
began their ceremonious fake blasting of the people about them.
A few of the bystanders jumped out of the way instinctively
but most stood gawping at the ridiculous spectacle of a hundred
bedraggled fancy-dress actors cavorting about in front of them.
The batch of saucers due to land in New York were soon
all down and then the real fun began.
The fake invasion had created no more than a ripple of
irritation among the milling millions who, for the most part,
were intent on getting that bit over with, especially the invading
forces.
 THE CABAL 161
Commander Pitzburg had remained in orbit in the command
vessel while his crew went down in the flying-saucers. All
eyes returned to Earth once more. The administrative staff who
had arranged the invasion cursed for a while at the waste of
money and effort to shift 24,000 men to the ground just to
have everyone laugh, and the matter was dismissed. Almost
dismissed.”
Someone yelled. “Hey, here come some more...” Every-
one looked up at the sky again...ready for another laugh
...thinking this to be one who had been left behind... that
someone had goofed and a few late-comers were due. .
But this was different somehow. . there wasn’t that smell
of the ridiculous about it. A huge flash of red light spurted
from the snout of the craft speeding towards the crowds. A
blinding crash sounded to one side of the entrance to the Car-
nival and suddenly there was a hole in the ground where a
hundred people had bustled to get a better look. Then another
blast and another, three more after that and more still. The
result was masses of holes, deep-smoking holes and a scattering
of several limbs, broken bodies and wailing people, staggering
about, half burned to death by. some dreadful mistake. It had
to be a mistake. The invasion force was a fake. They weren’t
supposed to put real fire in those guns. The death of half a
dozen people by accidental arrival of small flying-saucers was
one thing but this was devastation.
Then came the ship. A big ship... measuring surely two
hundred meters long, sleek and streamlined. Not podgy and
dumpy like the flying-saucers. This was much more fright-
ening, sinister and blasting from every visible port.
At least six hundred people were slaughtered in the five
‘minutes before the first craft landed. The mess was fantastic,
the carnage nauseating, people panicked and began fleeing the
Carnival entrance like frightened animals. A space of fifty or
sixty meters square was cleared, involuntarily, at the center
of the engraved hallway. The people on its outskirts were
puffed into smoke by the landing-craft, its atomic jets blowing
the solid metal surfaces to liquid.
The state of panic alone was killing people under foot,
making any kind of security impossible. Nobody was waiting
‘to see what this was all about...the Carnival was over, the

‘
a
162 Philip Dunn
shortest in the history of Carnivals.
The Calm-Earth landed neatly, slap in the center of the
entrance and as suddenly opened its hatches. Ten huge, cloaked
and gaunt figures strode out in heavy armour and began blasting”
at random through the gathered chaos of running figures.
Hundreds fell under the fire as they scattered in a vain attempt
to escape inevitable slaughter. Nothing was being done to stop”
the advance of the Calmalese who poured out of the ship in
their hundreds, circulating and systematically killing all who
stood even remotely in their way.
The scene of carnage was appalling for there were to be no
prisoners, all prisoners were already there, in an unmistakable
cell, right there on Earth.

Roatax watched. She stood at the edge of the space port

where she had expected the craft to come down. It had chosen
a different venue for the initial attack. And it was just as well.
For even with her amazing facility for survival Roatax would
surely have died in the debris. Her whole body shook, her
mind racing—the carnage was terrible and there seemed no
order left in those who fell victim to the onslaught—she could
not help—there were too many dying.
All over the planet were similar scenes. In London the
opening of the Carnival had been followed immediately by the
Calmalese landing. The fake invasion had come down on top
of it and nearly all those of the Martian invaders died in the
crashes. In Tokyo, the same, in Paris, Vienna, New Delhi,
Hong Kong, Berlin, Toronto, Sydney, Moscow, Peking,
Rome, Tel-Aviv, Beirut, Amsterdam. ..everywhere that peo-
ple gathered in their thousands, they died in their thousands.
And no one had been in the slightest bit ready. Not for this.
Roatax had to pull herself together and make a decision. There
was nothing she could do here. She had to get to somewhere
effective; somewhere she could help end what the Cabal had
helped start. Pinball, she had to get to Pinball. A taxi-cab
crashed cross the nearby crowds into a wall. The driver was
killed instantly and several people pulled at his body to clear
the driving seat. She slipped the hand blaster from her belt and
cut her way through the fighting. Four fell before she could
get near. Finally she succeeded in reaching the car and pulled
 THE CABAL 163

_ the driver out. She punched the starter-button on the atomic

engine panel and to her relief it fired. The crash had not dam-
aged the computer housing and the motor was complete enough
- to reverse the car off the battered wall and turn forward. She
set her teeth, still holding off the few youths who were daring
enough to come near. Once across Madison Avenue she headed
down 63rd Street. The plush part of Manhattan was full of
retreating people who had not been part of the immediate attack
but as sure as hell weren’t going to face these invaders sooner
than they had to.
She belted down the street, crossing to Park Avenue at 50
kph and turned south, putting her foot down. At 51st Street
ten tall figures came into view from the East side and caught
sight of her. She pulled the blaster from her side holster and,
steering with one hand, using the manual control on the taxi
she leaned from the window and let fly a few heavy-duty blasts.
’ The angle of fire was wide and three aliens died. The other
seven spread across the road and levelled their weapons. “Fuck- -
ing idiots,” she shouted, as loud as she could, the battle cry
hanging on the air as three of them opened fire, shattering the
windscreen of the cab in one blast. Roatax was too low to be
caught by the heat but she swerved to make their next aim
more difficult. Then she was on top of them. Like skittles,
they scattered before her, six of them rolling to the side of the
street. The seventh had managed to get on to the roof of the -
car, however, and Roatax felt extremely uncomfortable with
a passenger. She turned the muzzle of the blaster at the roof
and pulled the trigger. He screamed loudly and flew off the
car, crashing to the ground behind.
Round the Pan-Am building and off the Park tunnel, she
knew that Pinball would be immured in the Park South precinct
jail and that was just ten blocks away now.
The chaos had spread already to the lower parts of Man-
hattan. Cars were taking off from the curb at massive speed,
~ not looking where they were going, just going. Doffer jets flew
overhead screaming instructions through tannoys and getting
— no response :
Also in the sky were small saucer-shaped flying platforms
_ with Calmalese soldiers on them. They were perched up there,
working as moving snipers, picking people and cars off the

ao

ee
164 Philip Dunn

ground like it was their life’s work. Roatax stopped the car
near to the precinct entrance and ran out to cover on the opposite
side of the road. She moved one foot out from the deserted
new kiosk in front of her and a blast from above stove up the
ground a few centimeters away. Before he could let fly another
offering Roatax had stepped out, aimed and fired, whipping
the flying platform from under his feet. His body was un-
touched until it hit the ground.
“One down...” she muttered, turning to pick off another
flying sniper in less ceremonious fashion. The sprint across the ©
street to the jail entrance took twenty seconds, two rolls and
a flip, but she made it in one piece. Once in the safety of a
doorway she picked off five more Calmalese and would have
continued with her gallery shooting had they not decided the
area too dangerous and departed to another.
“Huh. . . no spirit these aliens . . .” she humphed and entered
the jail house, sauntering down into the basement where the
“dungeons” were located.
“Pinball? Where are you... you lazy sod...”
“Here, Roatax, here...”
“What the hell are you doing holed up in this place. . . think
it’s safe, eh? Wait till you see what it’s like outside. . . they’re
all over the place, killing like half-crazed buzzards.”
She took the remote-control unit from the desk and opened
all the cell doors. Pinball and Weekold walked out.
“I knew that fucker wouldn’t keep his word. ..come on,
we’ve got work to do.”
“You're kidding.” Roatax followed the bounding figure up
the stairs.
“You got a car?” Weekold asked.
“Yes, but watch out at the exit, there might still be some
in the sky.”
“Christ.” They reached the main entrance and Pinball
stopped to look at the array of carnage spread across the road.
“You been busy, Roatax?”
“Sure enough.”
“Where’s the car?” He moved cautiously out into the street, —
looking up and across it.
“Right there... it’s in a bit of a mess but it should get us”
where we want to go.”

re
ee
 THE CABAL 165

“Right, come on then.”

Once inside the cab Pinball took the controls and spoke to
his companions as he went.
“I'm going to Bermuda...I’ve got a ship waiting there.
You’re going to do what I asked you to do in the first
place... get the ship that Farrago landed and wait in it.”
“What, the one in the Carnival entrance?”
“Right.”
“Christ, that'll be swarming with aliens. Why can’t we
come with you?”
“Because I want you to be behind Farrago, not in front of

“How do you know he’s going to take off?”

“Don’t ask silly questions, I just know.”
“Why can’t you come with us then, it might help, let’s face
ates:
“Because I’ve got my own job to do. . . besides I don’t want
you to fly the ship. I want you to wait for Farrago to fly it.”
“We'll have to kill his crew if we’re to take it over... will
he be able to take off on his own?”
“Of course he can...that thing came out of the body of a
much bigger launch...it’s probably only a runabout... if
they’d landed the main craft there wouldn’t be anything left
of New York City. They measure about ten kilometers across
I guess.”
“T’m not sure I like all this guessing...” Weekold grunted
as they went over a bump.
“Was that a body or a lump?...” Pinball asked.
“A body...”
“Can’t- help guessing, Weekold. . we’ve got no choice. I'll
get that bastard Farrago if it’s the last thing I do. . . before long
he’ll have wiped out most of Earth’s population and I aim to
stop him.”
They went over another body.
“Can’t you steer round them...it makes such a mess,”
-Roatax complained.
“I didn’t think you were squeamish about such things. . . least
of all broken bodies.”
- “Hmph.” ;
“Anyway ...how are you going to get Farrago without a

eM
Te
 166 Philip Dunn

bloody army?” Weekold asked after a minute’s contemplation.

“I don’t need any army... just a little wind and rain.’
“God you do gabble.” But Roatax and Weekold kept quiet
after that as they entered the area where the ship came down.
The mess was appalling, no steering around bodies here, they
were everywhere. The Carnival entrance was abandoned
now ...except for the dead.
“There she is...wow, that’s some ship,” Pinball com-
mented as he saw the Calm-Earth flag-launch for the first time.
“If there are guards kill them, doffer or Calmalese. . . just get
inside and hide soméwhere. When Farrago does take off,
wait...don’t go sticking a blaster in his ear... just keep out
of the way... right?”
“Huh.”
“And don’t worry.”
“God that’s funny, don’t worry he says...ho ho.” Roatax
climbed out of the car and stepped over a pile of burnt dead.
“See you in heaven,” Pinball called out and sped away.
Roatax and Weekold were left by the side of the road, looking ~
a little bemused. Pinball headed out of town.

* ** *

For Dutch the world had almost fallen apart. The entire force
of New York doffers was out. The armed forces remaining
from the landing of the fake invasion were scattered far and
wide in small guerrilla groups, without any central control and
very little ammunition. The weapons they had brought with
them were deliberately without heat packs and those who had
raided arms shops or local stores of ammo, found it severely
lacking. Suppliers had handed in the majority of their stock
before the start of the Carnival. There were vast caches at the
precinct armouries and furious attempts were in progress to get
the stuff out to the forces and the doffers. The problems were
impossible, particularly with the flying Calmalese supa
everywhere.
Dutch had set up a headquarters at ISCC and with the aid
_ of the two hundred thousand video lines and the Gaffer he
attempted to organize a defence of New York City. He’d im-
:
:
r
 THE CABAL 167
ported six hundred people off the street and somehow or other
managed to teach them to use the communications systems.
They answered distress calls and relayed doffer activity to the
planning office where poor Dutch sweated buckets.
“Yes, for Christ sake, get to 44th precinct, there’s more
ammunition there than you could use... Iknow... I know... but
' that’s the nearest place . . . just get there the best way you can.”
No sooner had one line gone dead than another came on the
screen. This was a familiar one. It was also bleeding and dirty,
covered in sweat and breathing heavily.
“What the hell are you doing, Bradly... where are you?”
“Pinball and Weekold have broken from the cell, sir.”
“To hell with them, Bradly, maybe they’ll do some good
...they’ve nothing to lose. . have you got some fight left in
you?”
“Yes, sir, plenty, we’ve been firing from the upper windows
at those bloody flying snipers.”
“O.K., good, now listen. Some kind of leader of these
aliens has been spotted. He’s in an armour-plated flyer, a helo-
jet of sorts and he’s headed into the NBC building. He’s ob-
viously going to try and make a broadcast. I want him stopped,
Bradly. Pull as large a group together as you can handle easily
and get after him. You’re to enter the building by any
means... kill him, Brad. ..somehow...anyhow. He doesn’t
appear to have many of his crew with him... only two body-
guards and a bloody great ugly-looking fellow, the like of
which I’ve never seen... you know, twice the size of Pinball
and Faction put together... watch him...”
“Right, sir. We’re on our way.” The screen went dead. |
“That’s another good sergeant you just condemned to
death.” The Gaffer twiddled with a few controls on the master
panel he had taken over in the receptor banks.
“T’ve got to do something, Fletch, I can’t just sit here and
listen to it all...” The screen lit again and Dutch became
involved in another conversation with his doffers.
The Gaffer touched the shadow control and stopped. . .
“Hey... Dutch.”
“Hold, Sergeant... hold the line,” Dutch instructed the
_ speaker on his screen and turned to the Gaffer.
168 Philip Dunn

“A TPU has just taken off from Bermuda Banks :

. unidentified.”
“So what, there must be launches taking off all over the
”
city . :
Not like this one...a TPU, Dutch...a Megnaton ship
. carrying eleven thousand tons of space time...and an
atomic plant too. .. there aren’t many can fly those things even;
in the orbital paths .. .and this one is headed out to space.”
“T’ll bet Pinball can fly one ...can you get a track on it?”
“Yes, just a minute...” The Gaffer touched a dial and
turned on the tracker beams: “It’s going straight for the Climate
Satellite in our sector.”
“What’s that lunatic up to? Can you transmit to him?”
“Sure, but what if the aliens pick up the source? They might
catch on. If he just wanted to escape he could go straight out
in a much deeper trajectory. . . he’s headed just through orbital
trace... that ship’s got enough fuel power for an inter-galactic
trip.”
“Use a scrambled code.”
“Yes, of course...if they can use unbreakable codes, so
can we... wait, it’ll take a minute...” The Gaffer played with
the computer for a few moments and then emerged with the
answer.
“Got it. This should do... hold on... you won’t understand -
a sound, but I’m going to tell him who’s calling and ask him
what he’s up to. The answer shouldn’t take long.”
“Provided he takes it into his head to answer,” Dutch mut-
tered.
“Have faith, have faith.”
It took a minute to transmit and another minute to get back.
the answer.
“He says... well. ..he says he’s going to do a rain dance.”
“A what?” 4
“A rain dance, wait, there’s more...he says... tell Dutch
to put his galoshes on... . and his raincoat. .. tell him it’s going
to get a bit stormy,.. Christ that clever sod’s going to acinus
the climate satellites.” :
“My God. ..of course... the climate satellites .. . that’s thet
answer. If he can cause enough row up there the aliens will

Lee
AeA~h
 THE CABAL 169
_ have to stop... they won’t be able to touch him without smash-
ing up the whole weather condition... chee. . . Ialways knew
there was some good in him. Tell him I love him... tell him
I love the bald-headed fucker.”
The Gaffer did just that.
 CHAPTER NINETEEN

The Pinball Wizard

As death erupted from the landed Calmalese craft Farrago had

moved swiftly from his protection out in the New York air.
He stepped on Earth, for the first time, though he had no time
to consider the step. His tall, impressive figure was seen strid-
ing across the short distance to a side hatch from the craft.
From here emerged a sleek and powerful ground vehicle. He
climbed in beside two Lanyards and Pint, who was squashed
into the back. They headed into the center of the city . . . straight
for the nearest television broadcasting studios.
Once the Grand Marshal had succeeded in broadcasting to
the world there would not be much left before the end. The
old revolutionary technique would work just as well for an-
alien as a human, better. He reached the studio and his amazing,
long legs carried him rapidly up the stairway. There was no 4
risking the Grand Marshal’s life in an elevator. The heavy-—
footed Lanyards crashed up behind him and Pint took his time. ‘
There were still those left behind, the braver humans, de-
termined to make some stand. In the NBC studios of New
York City, there were several people trying to ana broad-
170
 THE CABAL 171
_ casts to calm people down. Two of them stood at the top of
_ the wide stair-well as Farrago and his henchmen approached.
They looked down upon a wide-cloaked, broad-shouldered
creature whom they knew would not be stopped. He swept
between them, the folds of the heavy cloak knocking them off
their feet. It was as well that Farrago had come first, for Pint
would have stopped to kill them had it been him.
Within five minutes the Grand Marshal was established in
a studio with two studio technicians running around at his
‘behest. The Lanyards and Pint checked their activity and grad-
ually a world-wide TV link-up was prepared.
Farrago’s forces were already established. All of the land-
ings had been as successful as the New York one and the first
foothold was strongly placed. Now, a timely broadcast would
surely complete the plan. The God of sight and sound was to
be enlisted. It was 13:10 precisely and the broadcast begun.
“People of Earth...I am Grand Marshal Farrago. I com-
mand the people of the planet, Calm...and now I command
you.” He paused... his eyes did not flinch from the camera,
nor from the screens in so many homes. “We the Calmalese
have come to your planet because we wish to live here with
you. Our first act has been to kill. So too will our second act
be to kill. . .if you do not co-operate. This is our introduction
to you...across the length and breadth of your planet... my
planet.” There was a crackle as Farrago finished his sentence
but he ignored it and opened his mouth to continue.
“TI...” The crackling suddenly rose to a pitch and a flash
replaced the Grand Marshal’s face on every screen across the
planet... 3
The flash was replaced by a more familiar face. . . Farrago
saw the face too and gasped... for it was large, bald, with a
~ big nose and piercing blue eyes.
“Pinball...” Farrago shouted. As he did so there was a
massive crash outside the studio and Pint went out to inves-
tigate.
“Hello everybody . .I hope I’ve pressed the right button.”
_Pinball’s first transmission was like a shot in the arm to every-
one watching. Many thousands of viewers knew that face.
Some could not place it, some had seen it in the newspapers
after many a successful crime, others were not quite certain
172 Philip Dunn
of the owner’s identity, but everyone knew it to be human.
“With any luck I am now speaking to at least half the world
.. and... almost as important, to Grand Marshal Farrago,
who has been lecturing you, hitherto, on the art of conquering
a race. First things first, don’t count your chickens, Farrago,
my old mate . . . right at this moment J am the only one in
a commanding position around here . . .” Farrago leaped from
his seat and grasped the technician by the throat.
“Cut him off... get him off the screen. ..now.”
‘T...1...can’t...Ican’t...he’s transmitting from the. . . the
satellite . . . he’s got the link up under his control up there more
than have downhere . . . there’snothingIcando. . . please... he’s
got his own power source... please, I can’t stop him.”
The technician slumped to the ground as Farrago dropped
his winded body.
He bounded from the control room,.through the studio and
towards the door through which Pint had just left. As he went
he stopped for a moment, catching the words that came from
the monitor. |
“nobody is to panic. ..there is no need for panic. . . the
world is not overcome... we are nowhere near defeated. The ©
visiting invaders have only managed so far to get into the New
York transmission station . . . That’s just a clever move to make
you think they’re in charge...we are many more than
they...and most of all...we have control. I have control
because, dear Grand Marshal . . . master of nothing you survey,
I am in the Climate Satellite. Hear me, Farrago, hear me...”
Farrago froze where he stood. “If you go ahead one step
more...I change the weather...I will cause such storms to—
be sent down upon your dirty-looking lot that you’ll have to
swim off the planet. You have cheated me once, Farrago... you.
will not do it again...” Farrago cursed in his own tongue. He
had not bargained for such resistance. He opened the door and —
Pint’s massive body was thrust through it as he came out. With
all the force of his 200 kilos Pint toppled Farrago to the ground.
In the course of a few moments the commanding figure of the —
Calmalese leader was a flailing mass of arms and legs, almost+
crushed to death by his henchman.
He was soon on his feet, his jag-sword in his hand. The
door was still open and outside was the reason for Pint’s felling. —
F]
6
-
Paes
THE CABAL 173
- Bradly and five doffers carrieda great steel girder in their
arms.
Farrago knew that a rush would get him nowhere so he
encouraged them to close in on him. Once they were close
enough, all carrying the weight of the beam, none had an arm
free to wield a weapon. Farrago sunk his jag-sword into
_ Bradly’s neck, twisted and thrust sideways.
Sergeant Bradly was decapitated and the doffers, unaccus-
tomed to such violent methods, even in New York, dropped
the beam and stared in disbelief as their sergeant’s head was
kicked by the rushing Farrago, down the stairs. He was away
without further encounter, out of the building and into the first
ground car he could find. He had blundered, now he had to
make amends, fast.
Roatax and Weekold had approached Farrago’s launch and
found the main hatch to be open.
“What the hell? Someone’s beaten us to it.” Weekold was
very shaky.
“It does look a bit funny...” There were several dead dof-
fers strewn about around the door, as though they had been
banging on the door and someone had popped out and knocked
them off.
“Why would anyone leave the door open?”
“Well, let’s get in and have a look...
“Christ .. . I don’t know that I fancy this one bit... you do
tealize exactly what we’re about to do I suppose.”
“Tm trying not to...come on.”
-They boarded the enormous craft that rested silently on the
melted ground of the Carnival entrance. Roatax felt the contrast
of death and destruction outside to warm silence inside, though
there were other emotions at work which did not comfort her.
They were stepping into a completely alien world and planning
to let a vicious mass-killer carry them off in a direction they
knew nothing of.
They did this because Pinball told them to. She contem-
plated their lunacy and was about to turn and retreat when
Weckold shouted at her. “It’s dark, haven’t you got a torch?”
“Shut up jittering, Weekold, for God’s sake, you make me
more nervous...shut the hatch, maybe that’ll turn on the
lights.”
 .
,

174 Philip Dunn }

“This isn’t a fucking toilet, you-silly bitch. . anyway how'd

I shut the latch, what do you think I am...” The hatch, how-
ever, shut of its own accord.
“Hey, how’d you do that?” he jumped.
“Do what?” asked Roatax. ;
“Shut the door, how’d you shut the hatch... just now?”
“T didn’t.”
“Oh, come on, don’t kid me, it didn’t shut on its own.
Weekold was searching around the edge of the closed hatch
for a catch!
“Tt must have done, if you didn’t shut it and I didn’t shut
it... now for heaven’s sake shut it, Weekold. .. what the hell
difference does it make anyway...?”
“We can’t get out again, that’s what difference it makes...”
Roatax was twenty meters up the nearest corridor and when
Weekold realized he scuttled after her like a child i in a super-
store.
As he passed a turn to the right he saw a movement.
“Roatax . ..”” He stopped her progress, his hand tightly grip-
ping her arm.
“Don’t, you’re hurting...”
“There is someone in this place.”
“Where?”
“Shh...up there, along that corridor, I saw him.”
“God, you are in a state...come on then, we’ll have a
looks. 5
They both set off down the corridor, turned right and left
and right again. Then off down another corridor, right and
right and right again. They were lost and there was no further
sign of the other intruder.
“You must have seen a shadow, there’s no one in this place
but us...” Roatax said, her eyes never once looking at Wee-
kold, searching every pocket of darkness and shadow about
them.
“I swear I saw a dark figure creeping about...I know I
did.”
“Well, forget it, you’re in no state to be sure of anything
in this dreadful place and neither am I... let’s find a hiding-
place and settle down for take-off.”

ee
i
eT
Te e
 THE CABAL 175
Pa As she spoke the hatch opened and in strode the real ter-
ror... Farrago himself.
“Oh Christ I feel sick,” said Weekold.
Roatax slammed a hand over his mouth and felt her whole
body shake. Farrago had become an instant myth in everyone’s
mind. His hugely gaunt frame, as it moved fast and powerful
through the craft, sent shivers of horror through their bodies.
_ They felt like frightened children, pitted against a terrible giant.
“Parch, Parch...” Farrago shouted, as he moved down the
length of the adjacent corridor. “Parch, where are you. . . I told
you to stay here... you’ll pay for this, Parch...” He crashed
open a door and entered the control room. Roatax and Weekold
were only a few meters away... they had come full circle on
their search for the illusive figure.
- From where they crouched they could see a part of the vast
control deck and Farrago moving about, swiftly adjusting con-
trols and switches ready for take-off.
Roatax looked on at the amazing sight, her brain working
Overtime. There was nothing she could do now... but watch.
The very idea of this huge creature and his minions taking over .
Earth and running the show was pure horror. He was so vastly
different, so strange and terrifying that she felt the muscles in
her stomach tense until they were knotted like a wet rope. His
high forehead and long face were bent over the panels of con-
trols that would take them out of familiar realms into a hostile
~ vacuum of space. Roatax realized that for the first time in her
varied and uncertain life she was terrified.
And the great rumbling power under Farrago’s thumb began
its vibrating climb to take-off.
- His figure moved still more rapidly about the control cham-
_ ber, each stop followed by still greater thrusts of power.
Farrago was in one hell of a hurry. The build-up reached
a depth of sound like a basso profundo, plummeting the cor-
ridors of the craft and crashing through Roatax and Weekold
until they felt their heads would roll with everything else.
Suddenly there came a shriek and a lift and the craft took
off. Roatax held on to her stomach as the “G” force pushed
her body down lower and lower to the ground. She tried to
es
grasp some part of the walls but there was nothing to support
176 Philip Dunn
her bending frame and eventually she gave up and allowed |
herself to be crushed.
Then, with a snap, the vibration and gravity force ceased
and flight became smooth and easy.
“Thank God for that.” She turned to Weekold. But he ia
crunched upon the floor, unconscious. She shook him but to
no effect. Now she was completely alone.
There was no way of telling where the craft was headed.
Pinball had called it their escape route, but how could they be
escaping with the crook in the story... it didn’t make the slight-
est sense. She craned her neck towards the open door of the
control room and caught sight of an Earth TV screen that
Farrago had just turned on. It was flooded with the light of a
USAP news flash. The caster spoke confidently...
“_. unprecedented storms have broken across much of the
globe. This transmission will not reach many areas...” There
was much crackling, even though the sound was relayed via
a satellite close by; “...the earthquake in Southern California
has broken communication lines and we are not able to give
you any reports from there. We can relate that multiple hur-
ricanes are moving across the southern hemisphere and the
weather conditions over the whole planet have disrupted all
systems to such an extent that (experts) expect ae corapies
break-down within two or three hours.
“Reports of the alien invasion have given way to the greater
dangers involved in the climate changes. The forces of Calm
have been deployed, since the disappearance of their leader.
He was reported to have left the NBC studios immediately
after the broadcast by Pinball, a member of the criminal or- —
ganization known as the Cabal.
“The Grand Marshal’s spacecraft has been tracked by the ~
ISCC offices and he is reported to be heading directly for the
climate satellite in which Pinball is controlling, or perhaps
losing, control of the weather conditions on Earth.-We shall
bring you reports by the hour...” i
Farrago turned the screen off with a curse. Pinball had
manoeuvred both the Earth authorities and Farrago into a cleft
stick. With his robot jammed into the fuse-box of the Sperm
Reserve no one on Earth was going to start a row without his—
permission and with his own hand on the climate buttons Far-_
.. THE CABAL 177
_ fago and his Calmalese were helpless.
The launch, in Farrago’s dextrous hands, docked with the
climate satellite. Roatax could see from the intensity of the
Grand Marshal’s face that there was but one thing on his
mind... the killing of Pinball and rapid return to Earth. She
wondered whether even the mighty Pinball would be able to
dam this dreadful flow of energy and strength.
Farrago strapped a huge blaster to his shoulder and strode
out of the control chamber, leaving the automatic controls to
complete the docking procedure. He reached the hatch that
_ Separated him from the satellite, lifted his own hatch and began
blasting at the satellite. Within a minute there was a wide hole
in the hatch and the machinery which organized the air systems
on the satellite had begun screaming warnings. The pressure
between the two craft was quickly adjusted by the sophisticated
apparatus aboard both craft but the noisy alarms continued to
curse the holed hatch entrance. Farrago burnt a huge hole
through and climbed into the satellite. He took the blaster with
him.
There wasn’t going to be any stand-up gentleman’s fight
...Farrago was going to dispatch Pinball as quickly as*pos-
_ sible. If he could find him.
He stood, finally, upon the ground of the satellite, the blaster
pointed in front of him. Pinball dropped from above, his heavy
legs thrust downwards on to the blaster’s barrel, knocking it
from Farrago’s shoulder.
For an instant Pinball faced his power-packed aggressor,
swung a fist and hit him across the head. Farrago reeled under
the blow, under-estimating Pinball’s strength. He kicked out
and sent Pinball to the ground. Pinball looked up at this tall
_ creature and saw the jag-sword come out of its sheath. He
tucked one foot behind Farrago’s knee and pulled, the other
_ under his ankle. Farrago slid to one side, losing the aim of his
- sword, grabbed for the nearest perch and steadied himself. By
_ then Pinball was on his feet too.
. He thought, planned his attack... watched Farrago move
stealthily before him. He was facing a warrior of, maybe, a
_hundred years’ experience. He could not hope to out-fight
him... but he might outwit him.
Pinball ducked a swipe from Farrago and came in low,
 178 Philip Dunn :

butting the Calmalese chieftain with his bald head. Farrago —

staggered off, his arms flailed in the air and his head forward.
The jag-sword that Pinball so wished to dislodge, remained
attached to the mighty hand like it was glued there.
Farrago came back at Pinball, swinging the sword
now . . . without caution. Pinball slid under the attack, intending ©
to pull Farrago’s legs from beneath him. But he missed. Farrago
leaped into the air and one foot came down on Pinball’s ankle.
Farrago raised the weapon once more and Pinball rolled, one
way and then back again. The sword missed him, sending
sparks from the metal flooring. Pinball aimed:a kick at Far-
rago’s crutch but there was armour there and the heavy foot
rebounded.
Behind Farrago stood Roatax, her body crouched and fret-
ful. She saw the sword come up for a final stab and with every
ounce left in her body she jumped and thrust her feet, both of
them, at Farrago’s back. The kick was magnificent, striking
squarely across the giant’s spine. The sword swept upward
from the impact and Farrago’s head and neck were forced back.
He skiddered off his feet, the knees forward and body jerked
_ painfully up. But still he held the sword. He was some fighter.
He swept about and the very tip of the sword caught Roatax
across her forehead. The blood rushed and she collapsed on
to the nearest panel. Farrago then returned to his main enemy
and continued to beat him until there was no strength left.
Pinball managed, on each occasion, to avoid death by the
sword, but the weight of Farrago’s aggression was too much
and his strength began to give out. He had fought well, giving
all he could against a master of battle. Farrago was only slightly
tired from his efforts and like a massive, terrible executioner
he raised the awful jag-sword once more, the blade aimed at
the down-turned head, now defenseless.
But the blade never fell... not upon Pinball. A fine beam
of heat entered the chamber and drilled a rapid hole through
Farrago’s head. He died instantly. .
Pinball lifted his head weakly and looked towards the di-
rection of the fire. He heard the ominous clicking of a blaster
contact and cried out... Weekold... Weekold. . . is that you?”
There was complete darkness through the entrance from
Farrago’s craft until a figure emerged. :

< anne
i
 THE CABAL 179
It was tall, like Farrago and hooded, with a red cloak that
extended to the ground. There was no face visible through the
hood and when the creature spoke the sound reverberated from
inside the cloak as though there were vast depths there.
“No...your friend is still unconscious from the take-
off... am Gish. ..known to you, I think, as the Clock Man.”
“My God. ..thank God...”
“The Grand Marshal has been a thorn in the side of the
Clock Men for many years. They failed to dispose of him on
the Bridges of Grief... but now it is solved.”
“What happened to the rest of your people. ..the other
Clock Men?”
Pinball leaned against the panel behind him.
“Farrago slaughtered them on his way from Calm. I am the
last.”
“Except for the 10 million odd down there.”
“They are not my people...they are the rabble... that is
Earth’s problem...I do not intend to join them.”
“What will you do?”
“Return to my own home... the Bridges of Grief.”
“Where’s that. . . I thought you guys lived on a planet called
Calm.”
“We did.” :
With that the Clock Man drifted slowly back to the ship.
He passed a wavering Weekold who staggered into the satellite,
looking at the Clock Man with a deep frown on his face.
He held his stomach with one hand and his forehead with
the other. z
“Whassall the fuggin row?...Christ...” He clutched the
nearest panel and swayed for a few moments. “Too late as
usual.” He muttered between gasps.
“Just as well by the look of you... where’ve you been all
this time?”
“Sleeping.”
“Chee. . . if it wasn’t for that priest you brought along we’d
all be dead by now...”
“Was that a priest?” Weekold looked very sick.
“Yes, the last Clock Man...didn’t you bring him?”
“Not to my knowledge... ooooof...”” Weekold was very
sick.
180 Philip Dunn

“This is ISCC Earth calling Climate Satellite 344/1 .. . this

is ISCC calling Climate Satellite... come in please...”
Pinball crawled on all fours across the floor and punched
a button on the panel.
’ “Climate Satellite here... Pinball answering, what is your
message?”
“How’s things up there?”
“Messy, but we won the war... how about you...?”
“Well, that’s really why we called... we were wondering
if you could turn the weather off .. . it’s getting a bit wet down
here..."

IET
LO
G
 CHAPTER TWENTY

Reunion/Ruination

“Well, I saw it all on the box didn’t I?” Vandal took another
swig from the bottle in his hand, breaking his life-long habit
of drinking anything other than Crom.
“Tt’s alright for you lot to laugh... Roatax and me almost
copped it up there...”
“Up here,” corrected Roatax, tucking her arm around the
broad waist beside her.
“Not quite...” said Vandal...”we’re now...440 kilo-
meters from the satellite as it happens...”
“And drifting,” they all laughed loudly. Nobody cared
much. They had commandeered the Calm-Earth largely as a —
joke, but also to escape the tidying up. All the smaller Cal-
malese craft on Earth had been taken over by the doffers but
they hadn’t got around to the master ships in orbit round the
planet. The Cabal had.
“How long do you reckon we’ve got before Dutch gets
around to sorting us out?” Roatax asked.
“Not too long.”
“Do you think they’ll pardon us?”
“No.” They all felt dismal, suddenly.
181
 _
182 Philip Dunn

“Mind you. . .” Faction piped out from his corner where hee
sat with Holly on his lap. “We could give them a run for their _
money in this thing... I'll bet it shifts.” : ney,

“Come off it... which one of us is going to pilot it?” Week-

old began panicking again.
“You're looking at the only ‘Space-Time’ pilot in the Ca-_
bal...don’t you remember, Faction piloted the Milanese to
Andromeda. . .” Pinball smiled, Weekold grimaced and all the
others looked very apprehensive.
“What about it, Faction, think you could get us off. . . just
for a little jaunt of course... you know...to Jupiter and
back. ..?” Pinball patted Faction on the back...
“Well...I could give it a go...I’m a bit rusty and this
control looks very different but... let’s see...”
Faction spent ten minutes meddling with the computer drive
systems and then punched a large button on the main control
panel.
“Yyyyyyyeh...what the fuck are you doing, Faction...”
Pinball yelled as the Calm-Earth’s sudden thrust hurled him
off his feet.
“Jesus Christ, where’s he taking us...” Roatax swerved
across the deck and pivoted about a tubular support.
“You punched the wrong button, man...punch another
... quick.” Weekold had gone blue with fear. There was noth-
ing he liked less than being off his feet, especially in a space
launch. a
Vandal sat in a corner, both his feet securely pushed up
against one wall and his back against another. This wasn’t
quite the first time he’d been without a gravity strap about his
middle on a fast take-off, not that that helped a lot.
“Just hold on,” Faction shouted... “I think we’re in for a
fast landing.”
“God Almighty . . . what did they teach you at Space College
.. . you don’t land fast . . . you land slowly man, . .. slowly
... please . . .” Weekold pulled hard on the leg of a control
seat and managed to heave his body into it. Something flew
off a nearby monitor panel, nobody saw what it was, it went
too fast. Weekold doubled over, tucking his head into his lap
and putting his hands over it. Roatax clung on to Pinball, both
hands tucked precariously into his back pocket. Pinball held
 THE CABAL 183
the support that Roatax had let go and everyone looked ex-
tremely unhappy.
“How fast, Faction?”
“Can’t tell, this thing doesn’t speak English... but I can
tell you one thing...
“What?” Weekold whe his head for a word and then
dropped it again.
“The anti-gravity support systems are working at full-
pitch . . . the stabilizers are in perfect operation and the ‘G’
responders register maximum diversion.”
“What the fuck is he talking about?” Roatax had to shout
at the top of her voice above the heavy drone of the engines.
“You mean... you mean...”
“Spit it out, Pinball ...don’t keep us in suspense...”
“Tf all the stabilizers and ‘G’ systems are working then we
could only float about like this if they were overloaded. . . that
means. ..that means we’re going too fast for them to stop us
spinning about.”
“SLOW DOWN, FACTION,” Weekold screamed, “WE’RE
GOING TO CRASH US TO DEATH.”
“You said it, brother,” was Faction’s quiet reply, lost under
the dreadful cacophony of the overburdened engines.
They had only been eight hundred miles out from Earth
surface when they boarded the Calm-Earth. Within two minutes
of pressing the button they were hurtling towards it, towards
a crash-landing, snout first. The spaceship measured two kil-
ometers across and there was no hope of surviving for anyone
aboard, or any unfortunate people below. It looked like being
yet another disaster. The last disaster—for the Cabal. But it
never happened.

“YOU ARE TRESPASSING ON FOREIGN SPACE CHAN-

NELS. WE DO NOT HAVE YOUR IDENTITY. REPEAT
. . . YOU ARE TRESPASSING ON FOREIGN SPACE
CHANNELS .. . IDENTIFY YOURSELF. IDENTIFY
- YOURSELF. WHAT IS YOUR CODING . . . YOUR DES-
_ TINATION . . . YOUR ORIGINATION.
WE HAVE TAKEN EVASIVE PRECAUTIONS BUT
MUST RETURN OUR PLANET TO ITS FORMER ORBIT.”
“That’s not Earth,” Pinball piped. The internal speakers
184 Philip Dunn Na
continued to transmit the message.
“CONTINUE OUT OF THESE CHANNELS OR IDEN-
TIFY YOURSELF. THERE IS NO INDENT FOR YOUR
ARRIVAL ON CHARYBDIS.”
“Oh my god,” Weekold spat the three words out, as one.
“They moved the fucking planet.”
“It’s not Earth I tell you...where’ve you taken us,
Faction. ..?”

Sha
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