The Beasts Of Valhalla

'How much of this stuff did he give you?'

'The whole Goddamn bottle,' I said. 'Half in me, half in Garth. I lost track of the number of shots.'

'Over how long a period of time?'

'He started Thursday. This must be'- I paused to think about it- 'Sunday. Three days.'

Lippitt, obviously very concerned, straightened up, looked over at us and frowned. 'And?'

'And what?'

'How do you feel?'

'Like shit.'

'Come on, Frederickson!' Lippitt snapped. 'Tell me precisely how you feel!'

'I thought I did. My eyes have become very photosensitive. You've got a halo around you-as unlikely as that may seem. Everything seems very bright, and this amount of light hurts my eyes. Garth has been having intermittent muscle spasms for about a day and a half.'

'They're painful,' Garth said in a flat voice. 'What was that shit, Lippitt?'

Lippitt nodded toward Garth's left foot, which was raised slightly in the air. 'Bad?'

Garth shrugged. 'Broken metatarsal. I can hop.'

'Anything else broken?'

'Cracked ribs on the right. You haven't answered- '

'Come on,' Lippitt said as he abruptly walked up to Garth. The Defense Intelligence Agency operative put his arm around Garth's waist, planted his shoulder in my brother's left armpit.

I took the side with the cracked ribs, supporting Garth as best I could by his belt. Together we formed a six- legged beast that hobbled uncertainly out of the barn into bright morning sunlight that hit my eyes and burned me like golden acid.

Lippitt had the black Cadillac from Volsung, and we drove in silence. Lippitt seemed deep in thought, and Garth and I were-for the time-content not to speak; we were intoxicated with the sensation of being alive, the feel of the wind from the open window whipping our hair and caressing our faces, the song of churchbells in the distance.

Lippitt knew exactly where he wanted to go. The ride took forty-five minutes, and we ended up in Sagemoon, the county seat of Ogden County, where there was a large and sophisticated medical laboratory complex serving doctors and hospitals in a three-county area.

Lippitt parked the Cadillac in back of the complex, opened a rear entrance with a lock pick. We went inside, walked up a flight of stairs, through a waiting room, and into a receptionist's office. Lippitt stepped behind a desk and began thumbing rapidly through a Rolodex file.

'You two go inside and get cleaned up,' the agent said as he tore three cards out of the file, put them in his pocket. 'There must be some clean lab smocks around here someplace that you can put on. Drink all the water you want, but don't take anything else. Rip out all the telephones; make sure you don't miss any.'

'Lippitt!' I croaked. 'What's wrong with us?'

'Don't call anyone. I'll be back as soon as I can.'

'What's wrong with us?'

'That's what I'm going to try and find out,' he said, heading for the stairs.

13

Lippitt returned fifty minutes later with three frightened-looking medical technicians, a man and two women, in tow, and a box full of new clothes which he tossed onto a chair in the waiting room. One of the women turned out to be a doctor, and the first item on the agenda was to patch up Garth. His broken foot was placed in a walking cast, his ribs and the knuckles of his right hand taped. That done, we proceeded to the serious business of the day.

From the length of the list of tests Lippitt pulled from his pocket, it looked like Garth and I were going to be padding around nude for some time. Lippitt obviously knew what he was doing; he briefed the medical personnel on exactly what tests he wanted. Then he sat down in a secretary's chair, placed a revolver on top of a pile of papers where the three people could see it, and leaned back and put his feet up on the desk.

One of the technicians began the festivities by drawing samples of our blood. Lots of blood.

'Illegal gene-splicing experiments,' I said as I watched the plastic tube at the end of the needle sticking out of my forearm fill up with blood.

' 'Illegal' is a matter of interpretation,' Lippitt replied flatly as he stared up at the ceiling.

'Attempts at genetic engineering with mammals.' 'Right.'

'Large mammals.'

'Right. Let's be a bit discreet, Frederickson. We're not alone.' 'Looking for applications to humans?' No answer.

'You're unemployed now, remember? You don't owe them your loyalty any longer.'

'Really? How do you know who 'them' are? I'm not sure myself.' 'You've got to be kidding. What are you, a salesman for Saks Fifth Avenue?'

'It may not be as simple as you think it is.' 'So? Who is 'them'?' No answer.

'You think I'm an idiot?'

'No. But I've had more time to think about it.'

Mucous smears; nose, throat, rectum.

'Project Valhalla. Jesus, Lippitt! Some kind of biobomb?' No answer.

X-rays. Whir, clickety-clunk, whir. 'What killed Coop Lugmor?'

'A star wasp. It's a jellyfish that lives in the surf off the coast of Australia. Its toxin is lethal, but most useful as a molecular probe. I suppose you'll want to know what a molecular probe is?'

'It's a chemical used to trace the passage of substances through cell walls.'

'Correct. Would you care to discuss osmosis?' 'I think not. A pineapple like Jake Bolesh shouldn't have been able to get security clearance to piss on a tree within five miles of the Pentagon, what's more connect up with a top secret research facility. How the hell did he get to work for Volsung?'

'Siegfried Loge hired him. Bolesh was just what Loge was looking for.'

'Somehow, Jake always struck me as being a bit crude.' That almost got a smile out of Lippitt, who was standing across the room, wearing a lead apron. 'You should meet Loge. He and Bolesh didn't have much in common academically, but they were blood brothers in every other respect. If you were fond of Jake Bolesh, you'd fall in love with Siegfried Loge.' 'I'd like very much to meet him,' I said evenly. 'You won't.' 'Why not?' No answer.

Sonar tests; lungs and stomach.

'Where did Bolesh get the star wasp and the stuff he shot into us?'

'The star wasp was probably given to him by Loge.' 'The director of Volsung gave him a thing like that to kill a man?' Lippitt nodded. 'I told you; Loge is a prince.' 'The serum?'

'Lot Fifty-Six. Loge certainly wouldn't have given that to Bolesh. I don't know where Bolesh got it, but my guess would be from Rodney Lugmor's room. You're aware that that stupid prick Obie Loge took your nephew and Rodney Lugmor into the complex?'

'I guessed. They were playing a game, and Obie Loge was looking to score some heavy points.'

'That I didn't know; I never could figure out why Obie Loge would take two friends in there. A game?' 'A fantasy game.'

Lippitt thought about it, made a sound of disgust in his throat.

'It figures.'

'Whatever Tommy and Rodney saw in there scared the shit out of them-enough so that they thought they