Hunter Patrol | Page 2

and a softness under him, but under
his back, when he had been lying on his stomach, as though he were
now on a comfortable bed. They got me alive, he thought; now comes

the brainwashing!
He cracked one eye open imperceptibly. Lights, white and glaring,
from a ceiling far above; walls as white as the lights. Without moving
his head, he opened both eyes and shifted them from right to left.
Vaguely, he could see people and, behind them, machines so simply
designed that their functions were unguessable. He sat up and looked
around groggily. The people, their costumes--definitely not Pan-Soviet
uniforms--and the room and its machines, told him nothing. The
hardness under his right hip was a welcome surprise; they hadn't taken
his pistol from him! Feigning even more puzzlement and weakness, he
clutched his knees with his elbows and leaned his head forward on
them, trying to collect his thoughts.
"We shall have to give up, Gregory," a voice trembled with
disappointment.
"Why, Anthony?" The new voice was deeper, more aggressive.
"Look. Another typical reaction; retreat to the foetus."
Footsteps approached. Another voice, discouragement heavily
weighting each syllable: "You're right. He's like all the others. We'll
have to send him back."
"And look for no more?" The voice he recognized as Anthony faltered
between question and statement.
A babel of voices, in dispute; then, clearly, the voice Benson had come
to label as Gregory, cut in:
"I will never give up!"
He raised his head; there was something in the timbre of that voice
reminding him of his own feelings in the dark days when the UN had
everywhere been reeling back under the Pan-Soviet hammer-blows.
"Anthony!" Gregory's voice again; Benson saw the speaker; short,

stocky, gray-haired, stubborn lines about the mouth. The face of a man
chasing an illusive but not uncapturable dream.
"That means nothing." A tall thin man, too lean for the tunic-like
garment he wore, was shaking his head.
Deliberately, trying to remember his college courses in psychology, he
forced himself to accept, and to assess, what he saw as reality. He was
on a small table, like an operating table; the whole place looked like a
medical lab or a clinic. He was still in uniform; his boots had soiled the
white sheets with the dust of Armenia. He had all his equipment,
including his pistol and combat-knife; his carbine was gone, however.
He could feel the weight of his helmet on his head. The room still
rocked and swayed a little, but the faces of the people were coming into
focus.
* * * * *
He counted them, saying each number to himself: one, two, three, four,
five men; one woman. He swung his feet over the edge of the table,
being careful that it would be between him and the others when he rose,
and began inching his right hand toward his right hip, using his left
hand, on his brow, to misdirect attention.
"I would classify his actions as arising from conscious effort at
cortico-thalamic integration," the woman said, like an archaeologist
who has just found a K-ration tin at the bottom of a neolithic
kitchen-midden. She had the peculiarly young-old look of the spinster
teachers with whom Benson had worked before going to the war.
"I want to believe it, but I'm afraid to," another man for whom Benson
had no name-association said. He was portly, gray-haired,
arrogant-faced; he wore a short black jacket with a jewelled zipper-pull,
and striped trousers.
Benson cleared his throat. "Just who are you people?" he inquired.
"And just where am I?"

Anthony grabbed Gregory's hand and pumped it frantically.
"I've dreamed of the day when I could say this!" he cried.
"Congratulations, Gregory!"
* * * * *
That touched off another bedlam, of joy, this time, instead of despair.
Benson hid his amusement at the facility with which all of them were
discovering in one another the courage, vision and stamina of true
patriots and pioneers. He let it go on for a few moments, hoping to
glean some clue. Finally, he interrupted.
"I believe I asked a couple of questions," he said, using the voice he
reserved for sergeants and second lieutenants. "I hate to break up this
mutual admiration session, but I would appreciate some answers. This
isn't anything like the situation I last remember...."
"He remembers!" Gregory exclaimed. "That confirms your first
derivation by symbolic logic, and it strengthens the validity of the
second...."
The schoolteacherish woman began jabbering excitedly; she ran
through about a paragraph of what was pure gobbledegook to Benson,
before the man with the arrogant face and the jewelled zipper-pull
broke in on her.
"Save that for later, Paula," he barked. "I'd be very much interested in
your theories about why memories are unimpaired when you