A Plague of Demons

'Awaiting instructions.'

'Die… 'f you don't…?'

'Affirmative.'

'Permission… granted…'

'Instructions acknowledged,' the voice said emotionlessly. I had time to get a faint whiff of something, and then I was gone again…

***

This time, I came out of it with a sensation that took me a moment or two to analyze-a cold-water, gray-skies, no-nonsense sort of feeling. For the first time in days- how many I didn't know-the fine feverish threads of delirium were lacking in the ragged fabric of my thoughts.

I took a breath, waited for the familiar throb of pain between my temples, the first swell of the sea-sickness in my stomach. Nothing happened.

I got my eyes open and glanced over at my left arm; it was strapped to a board, swathed in bandages to the wrist, bristling with metal clips and festooned with tubing.

I felt an unaccountable surge of relief. There had been a dream-a fantastic dialogue with a cold voice that had asked…

In sudden panic, I moved the fingers of the hand projecting from the bandages. They twitched, flexed awkwardly. With an effort, I reached across with my right hand, touched the smooth skin of the knuckles of the other… Under my fingers, the texture was cool, inhumanly glossy-the cold gloss of polyon. I raked at the bandages, tore them back An inch above the wrist, the pseudoskin ended; a pair of gleaming metal rods replaced the familiar curve of my forearm. A sort of animal whimper came from my throat. I clenched my lost fist-and the artificial hand complied.

I fell back, feeling a numbness spread from the dead hand all through me. I was truncated, spoiled, less-than-whole. I made an effort to sit up, to tear free from the restraining straps, wild ideas of revenge boiling up inside me I was as weak as a drowned kitten. I lay, breathing hoarsely, getting used to the idea…

The Station Monitor's level voice broke into the silence:

'Emergency override now concluded. Resuming normal briefing procedure.' There was a pause; then the voice went on in its tone of imperturbable calm:

'Indicate whether full status briefing is required; if other, state details of requirement.'

'How long have I been unconscious?' I croaked. My voice was weak but clear.

'Question requires a value assessment of nonobjective factors; authorization requested.'

'Never mind. How long have I been here?'

'Eighteen hours, twenty-two minutes, six seconds, mark. Eighteen hours, twe-'

'Close enough,' I cut in. 'What's been happening?'

'On the basis of the initial encephalogrammatic pattern, a preliminary diagnosis of massive anaphylactic shock coupled with acute stage-four metabolic-'

'Cancel. I don't need the gruesome details. You've hacked off my arm, replaced it with a hook, cleared out the infection, and gotten the fever down. I guess I'm grateful. But what are the dog-things doing up above?'

There was a long silence, with just the hum of an out-of-kilter carrier. Then: 'Question implies assumption at variance with previously acquired two-valued data.'

'Can't you give me a simple answer?' I barked. 'Have they started to dig?'

'Question implies acceptance at objective physical level of existence and activities of phenomenon classified as subjective. Closed area. Question cannot be answered.'

'Wait a minute-you're telling me that the four-handed monsters and the fake humans that work with them are imaginary?'

'To avoid delays in responses, do not employ slang or unusual constructions. All data impinging on subject area both directly and indirectly, including instrument- acquired statistical material, photographic and transmitted images, audio-direct pickup, amplification, and replay, and other, have (a) been systemically rejected by Operators as incorrect, illusory, or nonobjective; (b) produced negative hallucinatory reactions resulting in inability of Operators to perceive readouts; or, (c) been followed by mental breakdown, unconsciousness, or death of Operators.'

'In other words, whenever you've reported anything on the demons, the listeners either didn't believe you, couldn't see or hear your report, or went insane or died.'

'Affirmative. In view of previously learned inhibition on reports of data in this sector, question cannot be answered.'

'Has-ah-anything started to dig? Are there any evidences of excavation work up above?'

'Negative.'

'Can the presence of this station be detected using a mass-discontinuity-type detector?'

'Negative; the station is probe-neutral.'

I let out a long breath. 'What is this place? Who built it? And when?'

'Station Twelve was completed in 1926. It has been periodically added to since that time. It is one of the complex of fifty survival stations prepared by the Ultimax Group.'

'What's the Ultimax Group?'

'An elite inner circle organization, international in scope, privately financed, comprising one hundred and fourteen individuals selected on the basis of superior intellectual endowment, advanced specialist training, emotional stability, and other factors.'

'For what purpose?'

'To monitor trends in the Basic Survival Factors, and to take such steps as may be required to maintain a favorable societal survival ratio.'

'I never heard of them. How long have they been operating?'

'Two hundred and seventy-one years.'

'My God! Who started it?'

'The original Committee included Benjamin Franklin, George Loffitt, Danilo Moncredi, and Cyril St. Claire.'

'And Felix Severance was a member?'

'Affirmative.'

'And they don't know about-the nonobjective things up above?'

'Question indeterminate, as it requires an assumption at variance with-'

'Okay-cancel. You said there are other stations. How can I get in touch with them?'

'State the number of the station with which you desire to communicate.'

'What's the nearest one to Jacksonville?'

'Station Nineteen, Talisman, Florida.'

'Call it.'

One of the previously blank panels opposite me glowed into life, showed me a view of a room similar in many particulars to Station Twelve, except that its basic dйcor was a trifle more modern-the stainless steel of the early Atomic Era.

'Anybody home?' I called.

There was no reply. I tried the other stations one after another. None answered.

'That's that,' I said. 'Tell me more about this Ultimax Group. What's it been doing these past couple of hundred years?'

'It contributed materially to the success of the American War of Independence, the defeat of the Napoleonic Empire, the consolidation of the Italian and German nations, the emergence of Nippon, the defeat of the Central Powers in the First Engagement of the European War, and of the Axis Powers in the Second Engagement, and the establishment of the State of Israel. It supported the space effort…'

I was beginning to feel a little ragged now; the first fine glow was fading. I listened to the voice for another half-hour, while it told me all about the little-known facts of history; then I dismissed it and took another nap.

***

I ate, slept, and waited. After fourteen hours, the straps holding my arm down released themselves; after that, I practiced tottering up and down my prison, testing my new arm, and now and then tuning in on what went on overhead. For the most part, there was silence, broken only by the sounds of nature and the slap and thump of pacing feet. I heard a few gobbled conversations, and once an exchange between a humanoid and a demon:

'It has means of escaping pursuit,' the flat voice was saying as I picked it up. 'This is the same one that eluded our units at location totter-pohl.'

Angry sounds from a demon.

'That is not my area of surveillance,' the first voice said coldly. 'My work is among the men.'

Another alien tongue-lashing.

'All reports are negative; the instruments indicate nothing-'

An excited interruption.

'When the star has set, then. I must call in more units…' The voice faded, going away.

'Monitor, it's time for me to start making plans. They're getting restless up above. I'm going to need a few things; clothes, money, weapons, transportation. Can you help me?'

'State your requirements in detail.'

'I need an inconspicuous civilian-type suit, preferably heated. I'll also need underwear, boots, and a good hand-gun; one of those Borgia Specials Felix gave me would do nicely. About ten thousand cees in cash-some small bills, the rest in hundreds. I want a useful ID-and a good map. I don't suppose you could get me an OE suit and a lift-belt, but a radar-negative car would be very useful-a high-speed, armored job.'

'The garments will be ready momentarily. The funds must be facsimile-reproduced from a sample. Those on hand are of last year's issue and thus invalid. The Borgia