The Final Figure, Sam Merwin [e books for reading TXT] 📗

enemy, the world and himself, and got resettled in his corner of the soft rear seat.

They had left the sun behind them, setting in a dust-pink mist behind the soft-edged towers of Manhattan. By the time they reached Flushing it had begun to snow—big soft flakes whose crystalline dissimilarities were almost visible to the naked eye as they settled against the car windows into wet evanescence. Up ahead the twin windshield-wipers ground them silently and methodically into wet-rimmed circle segments.

"I hope it lasts," said Toby from his window. "I got a sled for Christmas. I haven't been able to use it."

"You'll get your chance," said the General. Damn it, he wondered, what kind of man was Angus MacReedy—if he was a man. Somehow the silent snow, the waning traffic, the oncoming twilight, combined into a sense of ominous portent. It was as if the car were standing still, while a perilous future rushed toward it.

"We turn left at the next traffic light, sir," said Toby.

They turned. They skirted a thinly-settled swampy area on a narrow road, against a background of scrubby pines. The sprawling metropolis might have been on some other continent, some other planet. They met only one car—a long black sedan, that slithered past them on the skiddy road-surface, missing them by inches.

The house where they pulled to a halt at Toby's direction was not large. It had been put up early in the century, and its motif was that of the high-gabled Swiss chalet. Mercifully the snow gave it a touch of quaintness, almost of rightness, despite the absence of lowering alps. Toby pointed to a similar structure about a hundred yards further down the road. "That's where I live," he said.

MacReedy answered the door. He was a tall, angular man with a long, angular face—from which small blue eyes peered alertly. He wore a grey glen-plaid reefer that was buttoned wrong, a dark blue-flannel shirt and covert slacks that needed a press. He said, "Hello, Toby—you've brought company, I see."

"This is General Wales," said the lad very politely. "General—Uncle Angus."

The General had a ridiculous fugitive memory—"Alice, mutton—mutton, Alice." He shook hands with the model-maker.

"Honored, General," said MacReedy. He ushered them into a living room, whose desk and tables and mantel were literally covered with miniature American soldiery. He said, "Sorry the place is such a mess"—picking up the morning paper from the carpet beside a worn but comfortable-looking easy-chair—"but I wasn't expecting callers. I just had to boot out some sort of a mad Russian."

"What!" The general didn't mean to bark but couldn't help it.

MacReedy grinned quietly and said, "This fellow said he was assistant military attache, or something. Offered me all kinds of money to do some work for him."

"What did he look like?" the General asked.

MacReedy, filling a corn-cob pipe that appeared to be near the close of its short life, paused to say, "Like nothing special—not nearly as distinguished as you, General. Blond, chunky fellow with a bit of accent. Not a lot, but enough."

The General exchanged glances with Toby. He knew, without asking, that the boy was thinking the same as himself; it was the man who had bought the XT-101 model in the shop earlier that afternoon.

MacReedy got his pipe going and said through a small blue cloud of smoke, "How does the exhibit look, Toby? Have they got it right?"

"Pretty good, Uncle Angus," said the lad seriously. "They got the Mexican and Black Hawk War units mixed up, but I guess we can't blame them for that."

"I guess we can't," said MacReedy. He turned to the General, added, "Now, sir, what can I do for you? Or need I ask?"

"I have a hunch you know pretty well what I'm after," said the General. "My predecessor must have given you some idea."

"I've been afraid of this," said MacReedy with a sigh. "It's what I deserve for trying to show off to Toby."

"I don't understand," said the General.

"I was trying to show Toby how good I was," he said, ruffling the boy's curly hair. "Then, when I got that seventy-five AA-gun doped out ahead of time—and it proved correct—I had to go one step further. I should never have let the model out of the house."

"I'd like to see your workshop," said the General.

Angus MacReedy removed his pipe and said, "Come along."

The basement ran the length and width of the house. Although furnace and fuel-storage were walled off in a separate room at one end it still provided a sizable workroom, enough for three long wooden tables. On one of them MacReedy carved his tiny figures and cannon and vehicle parts from solid chunks of lead. Another was used for painting, a third for drying.

On this third table were a half-dozen more of the XT-101's—along with a group of Confederate cannoneers and their field-pieces, some Indians, a small group of knights in armor, and what appeared to be Roman Legionaries.

The General pointed to these and said, "I didn't know you went in for them. I thought you were strictly an American specialist."

MacReedy puffed at his pipe, then said, "I'm doing these for Toby—in return for his services as delivery boy and all-around helper. I'm trying to teach him history in reverse."

"Odd concept," said the General.

"It works—doesn't it, Toby?" MacReedy said to the lad.

"Uncle Angus says it will help me when I take history in college," Toby said stoutly. "This is King Henry the Fifth at Agincourt—just like Sir Lawrence Olivier in the movie. And this is Genghis Khan. And here is Tamerlaine, and Charles Martel, and Caesar...."

"I see," said the General. He was a little overwhelmed at so much evidence of one man's individual craftsmanship and industry. He eyed the XT-101's with malevolent interest, then studied a nearly-finished weapon on the carving table. It looked like....

It was! One of the just-conceived, self-reloading rocket-launchers on armored mobile carriage with amphibious tractor-treads. He said, his voice dry and tight, "Where'd you get this, MacReedy?"

MacReedy wandered over to stand beside him. He said, "I didn't get it anywhere; it just seems like the logical next step in ordnance, General. I've had pretty good luck in the past, figuring things out this way. I had the Sherman tank plotted back in nineteen-forty—just before I was drafted. I hadn't dared trust my hunches till I saw my first one two years later at Pine Camp."

"You were in the Army?"

"Six years," said MacReedy. "Two years here in camp and Officer's Candidate School, then two abroad—Sicily, Anzio and the Rhone Valley. I stopped a piece of shell near Lyon, and put in the rest of my time in hospital."

"Rough," said the General though he had neither the time nor the interest for sympathy. "Tell me how you 'figure' these things out. The Sherman tank, if you wish."

MacReedy wagged his head modestly. "It wasn't too difficult, once I'd seen the General Grant. That one obviously wouldn't do; it was too high, needed a full-pivot turret. Yet the basic design was there—anyone who'd thought about it could have done the same. But it was a pleasant shock to learn I'd been right."

"I see," said the General. "And you did the others by the same process—and you're always right?"

"Not always," replied MacReedy. "I fluffed badly on the atomic cannon. I expected a longer barrel for greater muzzle-velocity and range; here, I'll show you." He led the way to a dusty wall shelf where imperfect and broken models crowded together. There was the A-cannon—not as it had appeared, but as the General knew it was going to look in two years, when certain needed changes were made.

He said, "An understandable error. Unfortunately, mobility had to be considered." He paused, looked MacReedy straight in the eye. "I hope you didn't show any of this to your—previous visitor."

MacReedy laughed. "Hardly," he replied. "I'm American, never fear. I'm just one of the lucky few who has been able to make a good living out of my hobby; I have no axes to grind."

"We may have an axe to grind with you," said the General with a hint of grimness. The rocket-launcher and the improved A-gun were like the one-two punch of a good heavyweight-hitter. He went back to the XT-101, said, "About this twin-mount tank—how'd you figure we'd mount the automatic machinery outside the turret?"

"That wasn't too difficult—if I'm right; and I gather I am," said MacReedy. "There's simply too much stuff to put inside a tank-turret; you've got to mount it outside. And that means plenty of protection, which means an extra armored sleeve. So...."

3

The General said, "MacReedy, why are you showing me this? I could be an imposter, a spy."

"With that official limousine?" the model-maker countered. "I doubt it. Besides, Toby vouches for you."

"Risky," said the General.

"Besides," said MacReedy with the suggestion of a smile, "I've seen your picture in Life magazine." He paused, added, "After all, in my humble way I'm a bit of an ordnance nut myself."

"I don't believe you," said the General flatly—"I mean about working these things out through logic and guesses. But however you do it, surely you can appreciate that you're much too dangerous to be walking around loose. Especially since They know about you. I'm afraid I'm going to have to take you back with me."

"Nothing doing," said MacReedy. "I can take care of myself. Besides, this is my home. I like it here."

"You're being close to treasonable," said the General.

"Not I—you are," came the incredible reply. "You, not I, are attempting to deny a citizen his rights under the Constitution."

"Damn it, man!" the General backpedaled quickly. "Can't you understand? Suppose They got hold of you—They'd have you dishing up our innermost secrets to them ahead of time. I don't need to tell you what that could mean in the present world situation."

"You don't, General," said MacReedy. "But I don't think They'd get much out of me—much that was useful, I mean. I can't think clearly under drugs or torture; I'd be more of a menace than a help. I explained that to my visitor before you came. He seemed to believe me."

"Maybe he did," said the baffled General, "but don't bet on his superiors. You've been an Army officer, MacReedy; I can have you called back into service."

"With a permanent medical discharge?" MacReedy countered.

The General sighed. He knew when he was beaten. He said, "You'll have to stand for a guard then—twenty-four hours. We'll keep them out of sight as much as possible." He wished the whole business were rationally explicable to his own superiors. As it was he knew his hands were tied when it came to drastic action.

"I suppose it's necessary," said MacReedy sadly, but not defiantly; "I should never have tried to show off."

"It's too late for that sort of thing," said the General. "I'm going to have to take some of your models with me—it's too late to do much about the new tank, but I'll have to have the rocket-launcher and the A-gun. And I'll want your promise not to indulge in any more such experiments except as I request."

"That I am glad to give you," said MacReedy and there was no doubting the sincerity of his words.

"I'll pay you for them," offered the General.

"Of course," replied the model-maker; "my name isn't MacReedy for nothing."

As he handed over a couple of hundred dollars the General found himself almost liking the man. Damn these screwballs, he thought. He wondered when he was going to wake up and find it hadn't happened. It couldn't be happening, any of it. But the perilously-perfect models, of weapons that were yet to be, felt terribly real to his touch.

He said, "Toby, run upstairs and tell Sergeant Riley to come down here and take some stuff out to the car." And, when the boy was gone, "MacReedy, will you do some work for us?"

"Of course," said the other. "A man gets feeling a bit useless making toy soldiers in times like these."

"The pay won't be much...." the General began.

"I can afford it," said MacReedy with the unexpected generosity of the true Scotsman. "What do you want me to do?"

"They have a new weapon building," said the General. "All we've got are a few spy-photographs—not very good, I'm afraid."

"What sort of weapon?" the model-maker asked.

"That's just it—we don't know," replied the General. "I'm going to send you what we have on it tomorrow; I'm hoping you can give us a line on its purpose." He paused, added grimly, "As it is we don't know how to meet it. We haven't an inkling. It's given the Chief a whole new patch of grey hairs."

"I'll do what I can," said MacReedy. "But don't expect the moon."

"All I want is the nature and purpose of that weapon—if it is a weapon," was the General's reply. Then Toby and Sergeant Riley came clumping down the stairs and