Gary Brandner - The Brain Eaters

The helicopter came in low, following an electrified fence that bordered a cracked and neglected blacktop road. Half a dozen Holsteins grazed in a pasture beyond the fence. They seemed to know exactly how close they could come to the wire without getting a jolt of electricity. The cows barely glanced up at the chopper. They were accustomed to the walloping commotion above their feeding grounds.

Two men rode inside the modified Lockheed 286E. Stuart: Anderson, tall and slim, his eyes hidden behind tinted aviator glasses, was at the controls. The seat to his right had been removed for the installation of special equipment. There Lloyd Bratz, stocky and self-assured, knelt over the butt end of a gray metal canister that was sunk into a special port in the floor. An orange lever was held fast to the side of the cylinder by a twisted and sealed wire.

Anytime youre ready, Stu Anderson said in a bored tone.

Lloyd Bratz chuckled.

Whats funny?

I was just wondering what people would say about the purple cows were about to make.

What are you talking about?

You know the old poem I never saw a purple cow, I never hope to see one.

But I can tell you anyhow, Anderson finished, Id rather see than be one.

People have no imagination. It might be kicks.

Sure. Just spray the gunk, will you?

Right. Purple cows coming up.

Bratz used wire cutters to break the seal holding the lever flat against the side of the upended canister. He pulled away the twisted wire and eased back on the lever.

A soft whish could be heard inside the copter as the pressurized solution inside the canister was released. It hissed back through a pipe running beneath the floor of the machine to an exhaust port at the rear, where the downdraft from the rotor blades would be minimal.

Anderson tilted the helicopter to the right. Bratz craned around to look behind them.

What the fuck? he said.

A soft white mist trailed from the exhaust port and quickly dispersed.

Whats the matter? Anderson said.

Isnt the stuff supposed to be purple?

Sure. Thats the whole idea, so we can map a clear dispersal pattern down on the ground.

Well, it aint.

Anderson tilted the copter to give himself a view of what was happening behind them. Behind the tinted lenses his eyes widened.

Jesus Christ, shut it off.

What? Lloyd Bratz was distracted, staring at the scene below.

Shut the damn thing off!

Bratz grasped the canister lever and returned it to the original position, flat against the cylinder. The soft hissing stopped. Behind them the cloud of mist faded into the atmosphere.

Anderson wheeled the chopper up and around, heading back in the direction from which they had come. Lloyd Bratz leaned down over the canister and ran his fingertips over the smooth gray-painted surface.

What do you think went wrong?

Im damned if I know.

Are we in trouble, Stu?

I guess that all depends on what we squirted over the countryside.

The office was bare of any pictures or decoration. There were no ashtrays, no books, not even a calendar. The office held no clue to the personality of the man who worked there. The walls were solid institutional green with no windows. The only sound was the muted hum of a ventilating fan. The two pilots stood at semiattention, facing the man sitting behind the spartan metal desk.

Were you not aware, said the man at the desk, of the manner in which the canister of pressurized purple dye was identified?

The pilots looked at each other for a moment. Then Stuart Anderson spoke. We knew, but I guess we just assumed

You assumed? the man at the desk said, cutting him off. You assumed?

There was an uncomfortable pause.

Are you men in the habit of making assumptions where you should be double- and triple-checking?

No, sir, Anderson said in a subdued tone.

I most fervently hope not. Considering the kind of work we are doing here, a misplaced assumption could be disastrous. I only hope that in this case we will escape serious re-purcussions.

I dont know how it could have happened, Lloyd Bratz said. Stu and me went over everything on the preflight check like we always do. I know that canister was tagged for the dye-dispersal test before we locked it in.

What, then, is your explanation?

Again, the pilots exchanged a look.

The canisters might have been switched, Anderson suggested.

The man at the desk looked pained. Are you suggesting there was a deliberate exchange?

Its possible.

But hardly probable, considering our security measures.

It wouldnt be the first time security has messed up, Bratz said.

The past performance of security is no excuse for your laxity in this case.

Again, the silence in the room was prolonged until the atmosphere grew oppressive. This time Lloyd Bratz spoke.

We caught it after only a few seconds.

A few seconds. I see. Have you any idea what was in the canister you opened today?

Both men shook their heads.

The man at the desk sighed heavily. No, of course you couldnt know. I only hope that we have some incredible luck now to counteract your incredible carelessness.

What was in the canister? Anderson asked.

A product that was tested and judged faulty. It was supposed to be tagged for disposal.

There couldnt have been much harm done, Bratz said. There was nothing below us but a few cows.

Is there not a road in that sector?

The old Shawano County Road, Anderson said. It hasnt been used since they widened Highway Seventy-five.

Let us devoutly hope not. I will require a completed discrepancy report from each of you first thing in the morning.

The two men waited. When the man at the desk made no move to dismiss them, Anderson said, Is it all right if we leave now?

No, it is not. I want you to report to the infirmary.

You mean right away? Bratz said.

I mean immediately.

But my wifes waiting for me outside with the car.

And I have a dinner date, Anderson added.

I will see that your wife and your dinner companion are informed of your whereabouts. The things you need will be brought to you at the infirmary this evening.

Wait a minute, Anderson said. Does that mean were going to have to stay overnight?

A bit longer than that, Im afraid.

I cant do that, Bratz said. Ive got plans for the weekend.

I have a full schedule, too, said Anderson.

I dont think you men understand. This is not a matter in which you have a choice.

To hell with that, Bratz said. Im not going to be locked up in any hospital room.

As he started for the door, the man at the desk touched a concealed button. The door opened, and two men in brown uniforms blocked the exit. They carried carbines at the port-arms position.

Please escort Mr. Anderson and Mr. Bratz to the infirmary, said the man at the desk.

The uniformed men parted slightly. The helicopter pilots looked back once, then walked out, followed by the guards.

Left alone, the man at the desk spread his hands out flat before him and stared down for a long minute at the veins and knuckles. Then he unlocked a drawer and took out a compact telephone. He pressed the ball of his right thumb to a sensing plate on the phone, received an answering beep, and punched out a series of numbers.

In an office tucked away inconspicuously in one of the marble buildings of Washington, D.C., a telephone rang.

It was a quiet Friday night at Vics Old Milwaukee Tavern. At the bar Vic Metzger was arbitrating an emotional discussion between two customers on the strategy employed the night before by the Brewers in losing to the Cleveland Indians. At the pool table two regulars from the garage down the street went through their tired routine of trying to psych each other out.