Still smiling, Picard said, “All right.”
“You will smile as long as you are able to smile.”
“Yes.”
“And even when you are no longer able to smile, you’ll know this is for the best.”
Picard smiled.
“Glenn, you will observe. You will not become involved in the little drama these two are about to act out. ”
“I won’t become involved,” Rossner said.
“Peter, you will do what I tell you.”
The big man nodded.
“Without hesitation.”
“Without hesitation.”
“Strangle Michel.”
If the Frenchman’s smile slipped, it was only by the slightest fraction.
Then Holbrook jerked on both ends of the cord.
Picard’s mouth flew open. He seemed to be trying to scream, but he had no voice. He began to gag.
Although Holbrook was wearing a long-sleeved shirt, Salsbury could see the muscles bunching and straining in his thick arms.
Each desperate breath that Picard drew produced a thin, rattling wheeze. His eyes bulged. His face was flushed.
“Pull tighter,” Salsbury told Holbrook.
The Englishman obliged. A fierce grin, not of humor but of effort, seemed to transform his face into a death’s head.
Picard fell against Holbrook.
Holbrook stepped back.
Picard went to his knees.
His hands were still at his sides. He was making no effort to save himself.
“Jesus jump to hell,” Klinger said, amazed, numbed, unable to speak above a whisper.
Shuddering, convulsing, Picard lost control of his bladder and bowels.
Salsbury was pleased that he had thought to provide the canvas dropcloth.
Seconds later Holbrook stepped away from Picard, his task completed. The garrote had made deep, angry red impressions in the palms of his hands.
Salsbury took another length of cord from another pocket in his smock and gave it to Rossner. “Do you know what that is, Glenn?”
“Yes.” He had watched impassively as Holbrook murdered the Frenchman.
“Glenn, I want you to give the cord to Peter.” Without even pausing to think about it, Rossner placed the second garrote in the Englishman’s hands.
“Now turn your back to Peter.”
Rossner turned.
“Are you relaxed, Glenn?”
“No.”
“Relax. Be calm. Don’t worry about anything at all. That’s an order.”
The lines in Rossner’s face softened.
“How do you feel, Glenn?”
“Relaxed.”
“Good. You won’t try to keep Peter from obeying the orders I give him, regardless of what those orders are.”
“I won’t interfere,” Rossner said.
Salsbury turned to the Englishman. “Loop that cord around Glenn’s neck as you did with Michel.”
With an expert flip and twist of the garrote, Holbrook was in position. He waited for orders.
“Glenn,” Salsbury said, “are you tense?”
“No. I’m relaxed.”
“That’s fine. Just fine. You will continue to be relaxed. Now, I’m going to tell Peter to kill you — and you are going to permit him to do that. Is that clear?”
“Yes. I understand.” His placid expression didn’t waver.
“Don’t you want to live?”
“Yes. Yes, I want to live.”
“Then why are you willing to die?”
“I–I—” He looked confused.
“You are willing to die because refusal to obey the key means pain and death anyway. Isn’t that right, Glenn?”
“That’s right.”
Salsbury watched the two men closely for signs of panic. There were none. Nor even any of stress.
The stench from Michel Picard’s fouled body was nearly overpowering and getting worse.
Rossner surely knew what was about to happen to him. He had seen Michel die, had been told he would die in the same way. Yet he stood unmoving, apparently unafraid.
He was willing to commit what amounted to suicide rather than disobey the key. In fact disobedience was literally inconceivable to him.
“Total control,” the general said. “Yet they don’t look or behave like zombies.”
“Because they aren’t. There’s nothing supernatural involved. Just the ultimate in behavior modification techniques.” Salsbury was elated. “Peter, give me the cord. Thank you. You have both done well. Exceptionally well. Now, I want you to wrap Michel’s body in the canvas and move it to the next room. Wait there until I have additional orders for you. ”
As if they were a pair of ordinary laborers talking about how to move a load of bricks from here to there, Rossner and Holbrook quickly discussed the job at hand. When they had decided on the best way to roll and carry the corpse, they set to work.
“Congratulations,” Klinger said. He was perspiring. Cool, dry, steady-eyed Ernst Klinger was sweating like a pig.
What do you think of the computer lights now? Salsbury wondered. Do they look as Christmasy as they did ten minutes ago?
The computer room smelled of lemons. Salsbury had used an aerosol spray to get rid of the odor of feces and urine.
He took a bottle of whiskey from his desk drawer and poured himself a shot to celebrate.
Klinger had a double shot to steady his nerves. When he had tossed it back he said, “And now what?”
“The field test.”
“You’ve mentioned that before. But why? Why can’t we go ahead with the Middle East plan as Leonard outlined it in Tahoe, nearly two years ago? We know the drug works, don’t we? And we know the subliminals work.”
“I achieved the desired results with Holbrook, Rossner, and poor Picard,” Salsbury said, sipping his whiskey. “But it doesn’t necessarily follow that everyone will react as they have. I can’t possibly have complete confidence in the program until I’ve treated and observed and tested a few hundred subjects of both sexes and of all ages. Furthermore, our three mercenaries were treated and responded in controlled lab situations. Before we can take the extraordinary risks involved with something like the Middle East plan — where we’ve got to create a new subliminal series for another culture and in another language — we’ve simply got to know what the results will be in the field.”
Klinger poured himself another shot of whiskey. As he lifted the glass to his lips, a look of fear flitted across his face. It lasted no more than a second or two. Pretending to be thinking about the field test, he stared at the liquor in his glass and then at the bottle on the desk and then at Salsbury’s glass.
Laughing, Salsbury said, “Don’t worry, Ernst. I wouldn’t slip the drug into my own Jack Daniels. Besides, you’re not a potential subject. You’re my partner.”
Klinger nodded. Nevertheless, he put his glass down without tasting the whiskey. “Where would you run a field test like this?”
“Black River, Maine. It’s a small town near the Canadian border. ”
“Why there?”
Salsbury went to the nearest programming console and typed out an order to the computer. As he typed he said, “Two months ago I drew a list of the basic requirements for the ideal test site.”
All of the screens began to present the same information:
“Lumber camp?” Klinger asked.
“It’s a company town for Big Union Supply. Nearly everyone in Black River works for Big Union or services the people who do. The company maintains a full-scale camp — barracks, mess hall, recreation facilities, the whole works — near their planned forests for unmarried loggers who don’t want to go to the expense of renting a room or an apartment in the village.”
