The Utopia Affair - McDaniel David - Страница 11
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Silverthorne spoke English with no particular accent and displayed little curiosity about his opponent, who returned the favor. The conflict began the following day.
Monday was a slow day. They put their token troops through simple maneuvers and learned the limitations of their positions and the rules of the game. They were also introduced to the gamesmaster, a genially rotund man with a very serious face and an apologetic air. His job was to interpret rules, verify the decisions of the Battle Results Computer, and hold final responsibility for the proper functioning of all the aspects of the war.
Each man was given a staff of five to act as his chiefs of Supply, Operations, Intelligence, Planning and Computer Ops. They were carefully trained as to the extent of the advice they could give while maintaining communication between the commander and the forces, five hundred strong, who executed his orders.
Utopia had outdone itself in this operation. The soldiers in this mock war were not paid by the resort, but were all trainees for several of the better-known mercenary forces. Their pay was met by their prospective leaders while the Park covered their lodging and food expenses in return for their services as part of the entertainment.
Weapons were dulled, punches were pulled, cartridges were blank, but judges circulated in the battle area noting hypothetical casualties and occasionally directing the action. Their reports were processed by a small computer which calculated the exact results of the en counter in terms of casualties, material expended and ground gained or lost.
Understandably, Waverly and Silverthorne saw little of each other for some days after their brief meeting in the Lodge. The war was fought several hours a day, and studying the results of each move in the complex game took care and precision. The game had been so designed that neither side had the least advantage, and the slightest mistake in an order could cost valuable credits in hypothetical men and supplies.
Waverly made other acquaintances, and found himself sharing a few dimly remembered anecdotes from the First World War. He was not the only veteran of the Great War, he found—an aged Prussian had fought against the English in France. The Baron Ludwig von Schtroumpf was in excellent health, he insisted, and saw no reason why his board should have ordered him sent to this place. Yes, he remembered the Somme; he had been wounded slightly there...
Silverthorne maintained his interest in Waverly, though the pseudonymous Mr. Dodgson seemed unaware of the fact. The gentleman had kept up a careful study of his opponent through a week of intense, if imaginary, warfare, and had been impressed by what he saw. His organization was always interested in ability; even though Dodgson must be about seventy, he was almost preternaturally wily and clever. He had an aura of confidence and capability about him that spoke of years of leadership, and could instill a firm loyalty in any man under his command. This was a rare and valuable talent, and was certainly worth a try to land for his own people.
Nothing could be done about offering him a new job while they were here; an executive recruiter would have to find him when he came out and contact him to see if he was at all interested in changing jobs. Top men with true ability are worth all the effort it takes to get them.
He had a reservation on the outside telephone for a weekly quarter-hour call to his Sydney office. He would utilize some of this time to give them the data on Dodgson with a recommendation that they find out where this man was presently employed and prepare a recruitment presentation for him as soon as he left Utopia. Like most of the best executives, Silverthorne had a portion of his mind permanently focused on his occupation and no medical orders could turn it off.
Illya had taken his first opportunity to plant his third bug in Silverthorne's residence as soon as he found that he would be Waverly's opponent in the war game. He expected his fourth would be placed in Baron von Schtroumpf's bungalow; though the Baron was only a casual acquaintance, he was as close to a friend as Waverly had made during his first two weeks at the resort.
His own schedule varied—one day he would be alternately clearing away the dishes from six sittings and laying out tableware; another day he would be assigned to Room Service, which job might include keys to some of the residence bungalows. Apparently harmless items in his luggage fitted together to make a small, inefficient but precise locksmith's kit, and he had been able to derive the warding of the master-key system from study of the samples he held.
This particular day he had been wheeling coffee and sandwiches around the Security Area, supplying break time refreshment for the office and maintenance staffs. Vehicle Maintenance was in a flap because a fungus growth had gotten into the lubricating oil and was I thriving on the fungicides they applied. Illya had been fascinated by the biochemical problems involved and, as Klaus Rademeyer, returned voluntarily to the area when his shift was over. He worked with four other men on a jury-rigged filtration system, and almost displayed more knowledge than his cover could justify when the discussion turned to irradiation to kill the fungus spores.
It was approaching ten o'clock in the evening when the group declared itself conditionally satisfied and went together to the commissary for coffee and conversation. Illya found himself seated next to Curley Burke, the crew chief. Curley, of course, was bald, and his features seemed to huddle together around his mouth as though lost in the vast pink expanse of his head, with only two low-set and lonely ears far away to either side. His chin was small, his nose was small, and his eyes were sparkling blue beads; only his mouth was large and mobile. It could allow an insult and a pint of beer to pass in opposite directions simultaneously, and still have room in one corner for a hand-rolled cigarette which smoldered constantly.
His hands were large and lumpy, with traces of ancient grease deep in the texture. Somehow he seemed to have twice as many knuckles as he should and his fingernails were cracked and ridged, but his large hands could move inside an engine with the skill and grace of a surgeon. He was as interested in Klaus as Klaus was in the petrophagic fungus.
"Klaus," he said, "how'd a waiter learn so much about engines?"
Illya's cover had not included this information; he took a fraction of a second to sort through it and improvised. "My first job at sea was as a stoker. I thought of working my way up to Chief Engineer, but I moved over to the White Gang after I learned what life was like a little more."
"Well, you've come to the right place. I've been fixin' trucks for the Park six years now––since they opened—and I wouldn't want to work anywhere else. I've got the best quarters, the best food and pretty good pay; and it's easy to save with no place to spend it."
Illya took a swallow of coffee and looked doubtful. "It's a long way from the rest of the world, all right. I was beginning to wonder if I could last until my vacation."
"What's to miss? The girls here are cute and there's no regulation against interdepartmental fraternization—we'd probably all go stir crazy if there was." He laughed roundly and upended a brown bottle over his foam-flecked glass. "There's plenty of society, all the television shows a week late, and no news from the outside to worry you."
He gestured around, indicating the unseen guests up in the Lodge or retiring to their cottages. "These rich guys have to pay through the nose for this place; I live here and they pay me! And they're always in such a hurry to leave. Never figure 'em out. Got the best of everything here." He shook his head.
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