One
THE ULTIMAX MAN
This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this book are fictional, and any resemblance to real people or incidents is purely coincidental.
Copyright й 1978 by Keith Laumer
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form.
A Baen Book
Baen Publishing Enterprises 260 Fifth Avenue New York, N.Y. 10001
First Baen printing, June 1987
ISBN: 0-671-65652-X
Cover art by J.K. Potter
Printed in the United States of America
Distributed by SIMON & SCHUSTER 1230 Avenue of the Americas New York, N.Y. 10020
A man walked slowly along a darkened street. He was a young man, conservatively attired in a dark blue double-breasted blazer, gray bell-bottoms, and a bright blue shirt with a wide regimental tie. But he moved like a man of eighty, holding his elbow pressed tightly to his side. His name was Damocles Montgomerie and he had been shot at close range by a .32 caliber Beretta automatic pistol, the bullet having broken two ribs and driven a dozen bone splinters into his liver before coming to rest half an inch from his spine.
Reaching an alley mouth, he half-turned, half-fell into the shadowy space between corroded brick walls. A garbage can lid clattered on oily cobbles. He braced himself against the wall, pushed himself upright, and went on, deeper into the reek of garbage. Reaching the end of the cul-de-sac, he turned, put his back to the wall. With his fingers, he explored the hot, damp area below the ribs on the right side. There was a neat hole in the thick flannel of the coat, a hole that continued on through the heavy silk shirt and the fitted undershirt into the flesh beneath.
THE ULTIMAX MAN 3
A step sounded softly from the direction of the alley mouth. The beam of a flashlight speared out, traversed the pavement, played up the wall and across Montgomerie's chest, moved to his face. It held there for a moment and then winked out.
"Where you want it, punk?" a soft, hoarse voice rasped. "Between the eyes suit you OK?"
"Better try a gut shot, Chico," Montgomerie said in a voice as thin and taut as a stretched wire. "I don't trust your aim."
"Save it, rat. You got five seconds to square it with the man upstairs. One ..."
He listened to the count. It seemed to go on and on. Then it reached five. Light blossomed from the muzzle of the gun, illuminating the scene with a warm yellow glow. The plume of flame elongated, ringed with viscid smoke which slowed, stiffened into immobility. The killer stood, feet apart, leaning forward, his left arm out, fingers spread, the gun in his right fist thrust out before him. His lips were pulled back from his teeth; his eyes were half-closed, intent, unmoving. . . .
Behind him, something stirred near the alley mouth. A slightly built man in a gray derby and a dapper morning coat complete with ascot and bou-tonniere was picking his way fastidiously back toward the little tableau so curiously arrested. His faceўvisible by its own pale glowўwas narrow, elderly, prim, with a neatly groomed hairline mustache. He swung a slim silver-headed cane from one pigskin-gloved hand, glanced curiously at the immobile gunner as he edged past him, came to a halt before the injured man. He looked him over assessingly, his lips pursed in an expression of mild disapproval.
4 Keith Laumer
You seem to have managed your affairs very badly, my lad, a perfectly clear voice spoke inside Montgomerie's head.
He tried to speak; nothing happened. He tried to move: same result.
Tush, no need to grow excited. Nothing will happen to you that hasn't happened to uncounted billions of other organisms in the short history of the planet.
