ENTER DR. KAIFENG . . . Of all possible enemies, Cap Kennedy had yet to cross swords with the legendary master of galactic villainy, Dr Kaifeng. In the struggle for the mind of the tyrant of Papan, they finally met - and Kennedy was the loser. There was only one chance to save the situation and that was to pay the price of the enigmatic super-surgeons of the Kraid. He would have to take a role in their eternal play-acting. The stage would be the past, a barbaric world of swords and sorcery. Kennedy would be just a sword-wielding freebooter with a crew of murderous puppets at his back. And if he survived, Kaifeng would be waiting at the stage door.
Release date:
September 29, 2011
Publisher:
Gateway
Print pages:
126
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In the darkness the thin voice was sharply precise.
“Watch and remember.”
On a wall a picture flared into life of a man dressed in russet garments, with a roach of hair dyed crimson, and gems winking
on hands and ears. His mouth was thin, his eyes narrowed, suspicious, and his jaw prognathous.
“The Tyrant of Papan,” intoned the voice. “Soon he will be signing a pact of alliance with Terra. Once the planet becomes
a part of the Terran Sphere MALACA 4 will be summoned to aid in the rehabilitation of the Homimah Outlands.”
The second picture showed a man wearing the blue, green, and silver uniform of the forces of Terran Control; his insignia
was that of a Mobile Aid Laboratory And Construction Authority.
“Commander Rajahmund.”
The man in the chair stirred, making no comment.
The third visual depicted a broad, heavy face, the eyes hooded and pouched, the jowls sagging, deep lines running from nose
to mouth. The nose was beaked, prominent, giving the features the look of a brooding eagle.
“Elias Weyburn, Director of Terran Control. The pact with Papan is important, and he will be present in person to finalize
the alliance. This situation is unusual and offers an opportunity not to be missed.”
“I see.” Anj Gasen relaxed a little in the chair. “And you—”
“Be silent!” The thin voice held the cutting edge of a scalpel. “Watch, remember, and learn.”
Gasen thinned his lips. The light from the screen played over his thin features, filling the hollows with colored shadows.
A small, lithe man of early middle age, a professional in devious arts, already he was regretting having accepted the bribe
which had brought him to this darkened house set at the edge of town. And yet he’d had no real choice; the money had been
accompanied by two men who had answered no questions but had left him in no doubt as to what would happen if he had refused.
These strange men, more like robots than flesh and blood, had guided him to the house, into this room, placed him in the chair,
and seated him in the darkness, from which had come the voice.
“The Director will not be alone,” continued the unseen speaker. “With him will be others.”
The next picture showed a tall, thin man with an upsweep of hair over a sloping brow, with eyes like tiny gems in the smooth
ovoid of his face, ears like shells, convoluted and pointed like a cat’s.
“Veem Chemile, a native of Okulu. He has an attribute which makes him particularly dangerous. His skin is scaled with minute
flecks of photosensitive tissue which will reflect the coloration of any background against which he stands.”
Another picture.
“Penza Saratov, a native of Droom. You will note the shaved head, the massive development of shoulders, arms, and torso. Dressed
as he is in loose robes he appears to be an ordinary man grown obscenely obese. An illusion—Droom has a gravity three times
greater than Terra—the bulk you see is bone, muscle, and sinew. He is a skilled engineer. He is also capable of tearing a
man apart with his bare hands.”
A new face appeared on the screen, lined and aged, with a mass of graying hair rising from a high forehead. The eyes were
vivid blue, alight with intelligence, the mouth thin and down-curved, as if its owner had tasted something not to his liking.
“Professor Jarl Luden. The discoverer of the Quendial Artifacts and the Moomianian Scrolls. An accepted authority on the Zheltyana. Not as frail as he appears, but his true strength
lies in the keenness of his intellect.”
Anj Gasen said dryly, “Interesting, but was I brought here to watch a picture show?”
“What you see could save your life.” Again the picture changed. “Captain Kennedy. Apparently a normal servant of ORDER—you
know what that is?”
“The government of Earth,” said Gasen. “Overall Regulation Department Environmental Resources.”
“The heart and center of Terran Control,” agreed the voice. “But Kennedy is more than what he appears to be. Study him.”
Gasen saw a tall man, somberly dressed in black edged with gold, the shoulders wide, the torso tapering to a narrow waist,
the body of a man in perfect physical condition, but there was more to the man than that. Gasen studied the face, the deep-set
eyes, the strong jaw, the firm mouth. Here was a hard, relentless man, one used to authority, to command.
Gasen blinked as the light died. It was replaced by a soft glow spilling from lanterns of iron and yellow glass, a delicate
luminescence which softened and blurred outlines so that, for a moment, he imagined himself to be deep under yellowed water
or sitting in a coiling golden mist. Then the illusion passed and he looked at normal furnishings, walls of stone, a thick
carpet on a floor of polished wood.
“And now?”
“You may turn.”
A thronelike chair stood beside the projector, the man in it radiating the strength and power of a king. Tall, he was dressed
in robes heavily ornamented with twists of golden braid, the yellow stark against the deep maroon, the gemmed insignia of
a double helix bright on his breast. He sat as if made of stone.
But it was his face that drew Anj Gasen’s eyes. It was cold, remote, delicate skin drawn tight over prominent bone, the flesh
almost transparent, as if made of the thinnest china. The eyes were large and lambent, crimson flecks in irises of emerald green, the orbs elongated and slanting upward
beneath finely drawn brows. The nose was thin, the upper lip long, the mouth a thin, almost invisible, slit over a rounded
jaw.
“Kaifeng!”
“Dr. Kaifeng!” The thin voice was acid in its correction. “You have heard of me?”
“Yes, Master, I—” Anj Gasen broke off, confused, bewildered at rumor having come so abruptly to life. He swallowed, conscious
of the dryness of his mouth and throat, the sudden acceleration of his heart. The reaction annoyed him. In his field he was
an expert—why did the mere presence of this man make him feel like an inexperienced boy?
“Gossip,” said the thin voice. “Words whispered over wine. Hints garnered in the dark places of the underworld. Such is reputation.”
And the stories were darkly edged with blood. Things that had been glimpsed, and tales that horrified. Crimes that stepped
beyond the normal motivations of greed. Gasen remembered a time when he had seen a thing crawl from a darkened corner in a
booth at a fair, a freak among many. But Gasen had recognized the tattoo on one limb, had known the creature when he had walked
straight and tall and had owned a mouth with which to laugh, hands with which to hold. Kaifeng’s work.
And there had been others, too many others. Gasen said numbly, “Why did you send for me?”
“To become an associate.” The thin brows lifted a trifle. “You are amazed? But why? Surely the successful completion of a
project rests on the means employed? I have chosen you as the best in your field. There are other reasons, but that will suffice.
Do you care for some wine?”
Without waiting for a response Kaifeng touched a button set into the arm of his chair. A blank-faced servant, the double helix
bright on his tunic, stepped soundlessly into the room and set a decanter and glass before Anj Gasen. Gratefully he drank.
“A test,” the doctor said softly. “The wine holds a poison that will destroy you within the hour unless an antidote is administered.
Needless to say it will be a most unpleasant ending. First the muscles will contract and then the nerves will tremble in sensitivity
to pain—you wish me to continue? No. I thought not.” The thin voice hardened, became the lash of a whip. “How would you assassinate
the Tyrant of Papan?”
“You can’t.” Gasen dabbed at his forehead, finding it wet with perspiration. “The man is a paranoiac. He is always surrounded
with guards and defensive devices.”
“Negative thinking.” The thin voice held reproach. “And it could kill you. Take more wine; it may stimulate your intellect
and can do no further harm. I will make it easier for you. The pact is to be signed in the banquet hall of the palace. The
attendance will be select, and only those men whose likenesses I have showed you are to be feared as nodes of concentrated
danger. The unknown factor, in a sense. I have decided that, at the time of sealing the pact with Terra, the Tyrant will be
most vulnerable. Well?”
Gasen looked longingly at the wine, then firmly pushed it aside. Now, if never before, he needed the sharp edge of every faculty.
“I know the palace,” he said. “No one can enter without being subjected to a thorough search. Electronic scanners make certain
that nothing metallic is introduced into the presence of the Tyrant. There are no points of advantage from which a sniper
could operate, and even if there were he could never escape with his life. It would be impossible to use a mechanical surrogate.
The area is constantly being bathed with electro-magnetic interference to prevent spying.”
“So?”
“Assassination is an art,” Gasen said boldly. “A true assassin works always with one object in mind, to kill and then to escape.
If escape is impossible then the project is unfeasible. Only a fanatic would be willing to lose his own life to affect the
culmination of his goal, and fanatics do not usually make good assassins. They lack the required patience and skill. They work on emotion, and emotion is always unreliable.”
“True.” Kaifeng inclined his head a little. “May I remind you of the passage of time? It would be a pity if you were to arrive
at a successful conclusion of the matter too late.”
Gasen dabbed again at his forehead, inwardly cursing himself for having ventured into the trap. He should have fought, run,
done anything aside from accompanying those servants of the doctor. Better to have died in the gutter than end like this.
“An agent must be found, one who can gain entry into the palace. A servant, or someone who could be made to resemble one.
A waiter at the table would be best, someone familiar. He must be provided with a weapon which escapes detection. Nothing
metallic. The means of death must be subtle. I would suggest something like zame, which kills instantly—” He broke off, his
mind spinning. “There isn’t time!”
The room blurred as agony gripped him, claws of pain tearing at his stomach, ripping at his nerves.
He fell, screaming, to thrash wildly on the floor, his feet hammering a muffled tattoo on the carpet.
Kaifeng watched, leaning forward, one delicately shaped hand supporting his chin, the elbow resting on a knee. His thin lips
were parted, his eyes glowing as if, in watching, he fed on the other’s pain.
As the drumming ceased and Gasen’s agonized face. . .
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