ASSASSIN
By BASCOM JONES, JR.
Everyone is allowed to
commit an error. The trouble
was that I couldn't.
[Transcriber's Note: This etext was produced from
Worlds of If Science Fiction, January 1961.
Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed.]
I deliberately dug my heels into the concrete floor of the corridor ofthe Pentagon. The steel plates on the heels of my black uniform bootsheralded my approach with sharp anvil sounds as I marched confidentlytoward the unmarked door five hundred feet ahead.
What was that expression used by Earth people of the 20th century? Ishifted back through my training, shuffled through the facts aboutEarth's past history with which I had been indoctrinated, searching forthe word. Assassin! That was it. But the term fell short. It lackedin magnitude. There was a difference in the murder of one person andthe assassination of the occupants of an entire planet!
One foot in front of the other, I paced off the distance toward the endof the hallway, carefully duplicating the strut which was a trademarkof the Earth Council's Security Police. I'd practiced the peculiar,jolting method of walking a thousand times, but I began to feel theeffects of Earth's heavier gravity before I had covered half thedistance. It had been impossible to simulate the difference in gravityin my training.
The two guards standing outside the door alertly watched my approach.When I was still four paces away, one of them ordered me to stop.They ignored as though they were not there the gold stars prominentlydisplayed on the shoulders of my tunic.
The guard on the left said, "Your ID card, sir."
The guards were well trained. They would not hesitate to shoot if Imade the slightest slip.
I handed the card to him and watched as he held it up to a visi-scannerin the wall. The scanner glowed into life and purred softly, rapidlychecking the invisible identification codings on the card against theID component of Earth's Master Machine. Then it dulled and was silent.The strident alarm siren over the scanner remained inactive. The IDcard was returned to me and the guards snapped smartly to attention asI went on into the room beyond the door.
I had passed the first test.
The reception room was small. Thick carpeting deadened the clump of myheels as I marched toward the chromed desk guarding a second unmarkeddoor. A flawlessly proportioned redhead sat behind the desk. Her eyesand face showed no expression when I stopped in front of her. Hertight-fitting uniform was black and bore the gold trim of the SecurityPolice.
Constricting my throat, I let the words snap out crisply, as I had beentrained.
"General Spicer," I said, "commanding general of the Security Police,reporting to the Secretary of Defense. As requested."
I waited.
Her eyes, still showing no outward expression, ran over me rapidly.Then she thumbed a button on the desk and a screen, recessed into thechromed surface, glowed into life.
Almost immediately, a full-face reproduction of the features of GeneralSpicer appeared on the screen in color. She checked the image againstmy face, her eyes flickering to the tiny scar under my left eye and tothe old blaster burn across my right ear. When the image changed to aprofile view, I turned my head to give her the same angle.
She nodded, pressing the button on her desk which darkened the screen.
She said, "You're early. Your appoin