Bear Trap

  Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

  _Dr. Alan E. Nourse, who when last heard of was vacationing in Alaska--and probably gathering material for SF or Mystery stories set against this background--is the author of many mystery and science fiction stories including MARTYR, the lead novel in our January 1957 issue._

  bear trap

  _by ALAN E. NOURSE_

  The man's meteoric rise as a peacemaker in a nation tired by the long years of war made the truth even more shocking.

  The huge troop transport plane eased down through the rainy drizzleenshrouding New York International Airport at about five o'clock in theevening. Tom Shandor glanced sourly through the port at the wet landingstrip, saw the dim landing lights reflected in the steaming puddles. Onan adjacent field he could see the rows and rows of jet fighters, wingsup in the foggy rain, poised like ridiculous birds in the darkness. Witha sigh he ripped the sheet of paper from the small, battered portabletypewriter on his lap, and zipped the machine up in its slicker case.

  Across the troop hold the soldiers were beginning to stir, yawning,shifting their packs, collecting their gear. Occasionally they stared atShandor as if he were totally alien to their midst, and he shivered alittle as he collected the sheets of paper scattered on the deck aroundhim, checked the date, 27 September, 1982, and rolled them up to fit inthe slim round mailing container. Ten minutes later he was shoulderinghis way through the crowd of khaki-clad men, scowling up at the sky,his nondescript fedora jammed down over his eyes to keep out the rain,slicker collar pulled up about his ears. At the gangway he stoppedbefore a tired-looking lieutenant and flashed the small fluorescent cardin his palm. "Public Information Board."

  The officer nodded wearily and gave his coat and typewriter a cursorycheck, then motioned him on. He strode across the wet field, scowling atthe fog, toward the dimmed-out waiting rooms.

  He found a mailing chute, and popped the mailing tube down the slot asif he were glad to be rid of it. Into the speaker he said: "SpecialDelivery. PIB business. It goes to press tonight."

  The female voice from the speaker said something, and the red "clear"signal blinked. Shandor slipped off his hat and shook it, then stoppedat a coffee machine and extracted a cup of steaming stuff from thebottom after trying the coin three times. Finally he walked across theroom to an empty video booth, and sank down into the chair with anexhausted sigh. Flipping a switch, he waited several minutes for anoperator to appear. He gave her a number, and then said, "Let's scrambleit, please."

  "Official?"

  He showed her the card, and settled back, his whole body tired. He was atall man, rather slender, with flat, bland features punctuated only byblond caret-shaped eyebrows. His grey eyes were heavy-lidded now, hismouth an expressionless line as he waited, sunk back into his coat witha long-cultivated air of lifeless boredom. He watched the screen withoutinterest as it bleeped a time or two, then shifted into the familiarscrambled-image pattern. After a moment he muttered the PublicInformation Board audio-code words, and saw the screen even out into theclear image of a large, heavyset man at a desk.

  "Hart," said Shandor. "Story's on its way. I just dropped it from theAirport a minute ago, with a rush tag on it. You should have it for themorning editions."

  The big man in the screen blinked, and his heavy face lit up. "The storyon the Rocket Project?"

  Shandor nodded. "The whole scoop. I'm going home now." He started hishand for the cutoff switch.

  "Wait a minute--" Hart picked up a pencil and fiddled with it for amoment. He glanced over his shoulder, and his voice dropped a little."Is the line scrambled?"

  Shandor nodded.

  "What's the scoop, boy? How's the Rocket Project coming?"

  Shandor grinned wryly. "Read the report, daddy. Everything's just ducky,of course--it's all ready for press. You've got the story, why should Irepeat it?"

  Hart scowled impatiently. "No, no-- I mean the _scoop_. The real stuff.How's the Project going?"

  "Not so hot." Shandor's face was weary. "Material cutoff is holding themup something awful. Among other things. The sabotage has really fouledup the west coast trains, and shipments haven't been coming through onschedule. You know--they ask for one thing, and get the wrong weight, ortheir supplier is out of material, or something goes wrong. And there'spersonnel trouble, too--too much direction and too little work. It'sbeginning to look as if they'll never get going. And now it looks likethere's going to be another administration shakeup, and you know whatthat means--"

  Hart nodded thoughtfully. "They'd better get hopping," he muttered. "Theconference in Berlin is on the skids--it could be hours now." He lookedup. "But you got the story rigged all right?"

  Shandor's face flattened in distaste. "Sure, sure. You know me, Hart.Anything to keep the people happy. Everything's running as smooth assatin, work going fine, expect a test run in a month, and we should beon the moon in half a year, more or less, maybe, we hope--the usualswill. I'll be in to work out the war stories in the morning. Right nowI'm for bed."

  He snapped off the video before Hart could interrupt, and started forthe door. The rain hit him, as he stepped out, with a wave of cold wetdepression, but a cab slid up to the curb before him and he stepped in.Sinking back he tried to relax, to get his stomach to stop complaining,but he couldn't fight the feeling of almost physical illness sweepingover him. He closed his eyes and sank back, trying to drive theever-plaguing thoughts from his mind, trying to focus on somethingpleasant, almost hoping that his long-starved conscience might give afinal gasp or two and die altogether. But deep in his mind he knew thathis screaming conscience was almost the only thing that held himtogether.

  Lies, he thought to himself bitterly. White lies, black lies,whoppers--you could take your choice. There should be a flaming neonsign flashing across the sky, telling all people: "Public InformationBoard, Fabrication Corporation, fabricating of all lies neatly andexpeditiously done." He squirmed, feeling the rebellion grow in hismind. Propaganda, they called it. A nice word, such a very handy word,covering a multitude of seething pots. PIB was the grand clearing house,the last censor of censors, and he, Tom Shandor, was the ChiefFabricator and Purveyor of Lies.

  He shook his head, trying to get a breath of clean air in the damp cab.Sometimes he wondered where it was leading, where it would finally endup, what would happen if the people ever really learned, or everlistened to the clever ones who tried to sneak the truth into printsomewhere. But people couldn't be told the truth, they had to becoddled, urged, pushed along. They had to be kept somehow happy, somehowhopeful, they had to be kept whipped up to fever pitch, because thelong, long years of war and near war had exhausted them, wearied thembeyond natural resiliency. No, they had to be spiked, urged andgoaded--what would happen if they learned?

  He sighed. No one, it seemed, could do it as well as he. No one couldtake a story of bitter diplomatic fighting in Berlin and simmer it downto a public-palatable "peaceful and progressive meeting;" no one couldquite so skillfully reduce the bloody fighting in India to a mild "enemylosses topping American losses twenty to one, and our boys are fightingstaunchly, bravely,"-- No one could write out the lies quite so neatly,so smoothly as Tom Shandor--

  The cab swung in to his house, and he stepped out, tipped the driver,and walked up the walk, eager for the warm dry room. Coffee helpedsometimes when he felt this way, but other things helped even more. Hedidn't even take his coat off before mixing and downing a stiffrye-and-ginger, and he was almost forgetting his unhappy conscience bythe time the video began blinking.

  He flipped the receiver switch and sat down groggily, blinked at JohnHart's heavy face as it materialized on the screen. Hart's eyes werewide, his voice tight and nervous as he
leaned forward. "You'd betterget into the office pronto," he said, his eyes bright. "You've _really_got a story to work on now--"

  Shandor blinked. "The War--"

  Hart took a deep breath. "Worse," he said. "David Ingersoll is dead."

  * * * * *

  Tom Shandor shouldered his way through the crowd of men in the anteroom,and went into the inner office. Closing the door behind him coolly, hefaced the man at the desk, and threw a thumb over his shoulder. "Who'rethe goons?" he growled. "You haven't released a story yet--?"

  John Hart sighed, his pinkish face drawn. "The press. I don't know howthey got the word--there hasn't been a