Free The Transvection Machine by Edward D. Hoch Page A

transistors?”
    “No,” Frost replied. He wet his lips and continued, “I think I can serve HAND. My father and a girl I loved died because of machines. I’ve returned to Earth in part to avenge their deaths.”
    “And how do you propose to do that?”
    “By killing a man. Vander Defoe.”
    “The secretary of extra-terrestrial defense?”
    “And the inventor of the transvection machine.”
    Graham Axman let out his breath slowly. “Your goals run quite close to our own. We have mounted a campaign against the transvection machine ever since its first human test, when a girl was transported from here to Calcutta. Defoe is especially vulnerable because we understand only he and one other man know the full secrets of the device. The other man, Hubert Ganger, is out of the government now, so there’s a good chance that Vander Defoe’s death could mean the end of the entire project. It’s not yet far enough along for his assistants in the government laboratories to take it on without his guidance.”
    Frost nodded. “Good.”
    Axman hesitated and then said, “I have only recently come upon some special knowledge that may help us in our battle against the transvection machine, but there’s been no time to check it out. I must return to the Indian Ocean, to Plenish Island, and speak to someone there. In the meantime, the death of Vander Defoe can only be good for our cause.”
    “I thought you’d approve.”
    “When will you do it?”
    “Today, tomorrow. No later.”
    Axman’s eyes widened in amazement. “So soon! There are preparations to be made!”
    “No preparations. I only need a weapon.”
    “A laser gun, I suppose.”
    But Frost shook his head. “Nothing so crude. I want time to escape. An anesthesia gun will do nicely.”
    “An anesthesia gun?”
    “One of the advantages of modern medicine is that injections can be given through the skin with an anesthesia gun, and the patient never feels a thing.”
    “I see what you’re getting at.”
    “A poison, slow but deadly. I give him a gentle bump on the street and inject him through the back of the hand or even through his pants leg. A few hours later, in his office, he drops dead.”
    “Very clever. It’s something of a wonder no one ever thought of it before.”
    Euler Frost smiled. “Maybe they have. They just haven’t been caught at it. Now, can you get me the gun and poison?”
    “By tomorrow, surely.”
    “By tomorrow.” Frost stood up and they shook hands. Axman gripped his for an extra instant, and there was meaning in the grip. Frost was a member of HAND now, a working member.
    He could hardly wait till tomorrow.
    Friday dawned bleak and rainy over Washington, despite a promise of a climate-controlled weekend. The wetness on his face felt good to Frost as he walked along Baltimore Street toward the Cabinet Wing of the New White House, reminding him there were still a few things the machines could fail at. He carefully drew the anesthesia gun from its holder beneath his raincloak and held it ready. This would be a day to remember, a day to repay that decade of exile on a foreign world.
    He recognized Vander Defoe at once from his pictures, seeing him leave his electric car in the official parking lot and walk across the street in a black rain-cloak. Frost nodded to himself and started forward. The gun in his hand, hanging loosely at his side, was loaded with a full dose of an obscure industrial poison used to clean atomic reactors. Defoe would feel nothing, but he would be dead in six hours, his skin turned a lovely shade of purple.
    He fell into step behind Defoe, bringing up the gun. Now, now … in just a minute … now …
    “Mr. Defoe!”
    It was a girl’s voice, a secretary’s morning greeting. She came running through the puddles to his side, blocking off Frost’s thrust. The anesthesia gun had to contact skin, or at least some thin fabric, to be effective, and now this girl was walking with him, snuggling close against the