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 The
 _DEADLY_ Daughters

 By WINSTON K. MARKS

 ILLUSTRATOR NOVICK


 _These gorgeous fanatics were
 equally at home with men,
 murder, or matrimony, and
 they used all three with
 amazing success._


Dr. Hubert Long, 40, bachelor and assistant professor of political
science at Mentioch University, thrust his rugged, unlovely face
forward, sticking out his neck literally and figuratively.

"The Humanist Party," he shouted at the 800 odd students in the lecture
hall, "is not a political party at all. It's an oligarchy, so firmly
established in Washington that our electoral form of government is an
empty ritual, a ridiculous myth. Our elections are rigged to perpetuate
a select group of feminists in absolute power."

[Illustration: Saving Dr. Long came in the line of duty.]

The mixed group of seniors stirred in their seats with wide eyes, and
many began taking notes.

"This may cost me my position at the university," he said grimly, "but
the time has come for all responsible citizens to face the fact that the
Government of the United States of America has degenerated into little
better than an absolute dictatorship!"

This time a rustle of whispering grew to restless buzzing. A young man
in a bowtie leaped to his feet breaking the no-questions rule in Long's
over-size classes. "May the _Mentioch Bugle_ quote you, Dr. Long?"

"You may headline those views, and I hope you do," Long declared
belligerently, adding extra emphasis.

       *       *       *       *       *

"Exactly what do you imply when you call the Humanist Party a group of
feminists?" the young man asked, encouraged.

Long's gaze swept out, noting the mild amusement on the faces of the men
students, the growing annoyance in the women. He fixed the reporter for
the campus paper with a level stare. "I suppose you feel that because
only 30 percent of our legislatures are women, that men still dominate
Congress?"

"I think that is the popular conception," the reporter said in a
patronizing tone.

"Then think again, young man. Analyze the composition of the Senate and
House, and break down the key committee appointments by sexes. You will
find three-fourths of these posts held by women, and the balance are
held by men whose wives are members of the top-level Humanist Party
movement. I say to you that our whole nation is dominated by a handful
of female fanatics to whom intellectual integrity is unknown."

"What are your indictments? Please enumerate--"

"I will, I will," Long shouted, ignoring the microphone before him.
"Without consideration of our national prestige the Humanist Party has
emasculated our influence as a world power with its pacifistic actions.
On the domestic front, the Party has initiated a program of so-called
Internal Security, a cradle-to-the-grave pampering that amounts to the
most vicious State-Socialism the world has seen since the fall of Soviet
Russia. We are fast becoming slaves to the soft, gutless bureaucracy in
Washington that feeds us, wipes our noses, encourages excessive breeding
and enforces its fantastic policies by use of goon squads!"

"Goon squads?" The young reporter lost his smile. "You had better
clarify that, Dr. Long. I wouldn't want to join you in a libel action."

"Keep quoting me," Long snarled. "I said goon squads, and I meant just
that. Once I belonged to a scholarly fraternity of political scientists
who were critical of our government. Of some eighteen members, I am the
only one left in public life. The rest have all disappeared, and I have
no doubt that my previous silence on these matters is all that has saved
me. But the time for discretion is past. If we are to save our
independence and democratic freedoms the time for action is now! I say
to you--"

       *       *       *       *       *

It made more than the headlines of the college campus at Mentioch. The
news-wire services picked it up, and Dr. Long's radical views made pages
two and three all over the nation.

Emily Bogarth, head of Internal Security, raged at her assistant,
bald-headed Terman Donlup. "Must I read about these things in the papers
to keep up on subversive activity?"

"But the man's record shows complete stability," Donlup defended. "He
simply blew up without any warning at all. The Dean of Women at
Mentioch tells me that Dr. Long has never had a word of criticism from
his department head. I suppose we had better remove him from his
position at once, eh?"

Madame Secretary Bogarth shook her head. "That's not enough. This calls
for liquidation. I want a special squad on this one." She began writing
names on a sheet of paper, names of some of the most effective
unscrupulous yet faithful operators in the party's top echelon.

She handed it to Donlup. "This man is dangerous. He could force us into
open control of the press and higher education. Get these people here
not later than tomorrow. We can't waste time."

"Yes, Madame Secretary," Donlup saluted with a full bow and went to
work.

       *       *       *       *       *

The following afternoon Emily Bogarth faced the squad with its
brilliant, green-eyed leader. She told them their mission and then
dismissed all but one. "I'm sorry to hand this one to you. I know what a
promising career you had before you. But this man is deadly to our
purpose. Believe me, I am not wasting your special aptitudes."

"If it's for the good of the Party--"

"Dr. Hubert Long is a lighted fuse," Emily Bogarth said, her cold eyes
hard on her operator, "that could blow the Humanist movement sky-high. I
want you to snuff out that fuse." She squeezed a forefinger against her
spatulate thumb.

The operator nodded and the green eyes flashed with the same fanatic
spark that electrified American politics at the turn of the 21st century
and launched the Humanist Party into its 30-year tenure of power.

       *       *       *       *       *

At first only a shocked, embarrassed silence greeted Dr. Long on the
campus of Mentioch University, but as the press notices of his
utterances grew in volume so did his prestige.

He began to have a number of local visitors who evinced sharp interest
in his views. At the end of the first week he was holding forth each
evening to a sizable audience in his tiny bungalow on the edge of
faculty row.

By nature a careful, practical man, Hubert Long now carried a small
pistol in his coat pocket, but being also a fearless, independent
individual, he admitted all callers and exposed himself daily to the
public. It wasn't entirely personal bravado, however. He knew from his
years of intense, discreet research that the goon squads rarely made
their attacks in the public eye. When they liquidated him he fervently
hoped they would make this mistake and prove his point concerning their
operations.

Although he didn't seek martyrdom, Dr. Long was prepared for it, as he
explained to the informal seminar that had accumulated at his home this
Sunday afternoon. It was now late evening and the endless questions were
beginning to grow wearying.

"How do you know," asked a skeptical businessman, "that I am not an
assassin who will ambush you on the way to the bathroom tonight?"

There were several ladies present, and bachelor Long blushed with
annoyance. "You might very well be," he retorted. "But probably I have
some measure of temporary protection from the publicity I have received.
My death, if it occurs, will doubtless appear to be from natural causes,
or perhaps from a most ordinary but unfortunate accident."

He arose. "It's rather late and I have an early class. Will you excuse
me? Thanks for coming, everyone of you." He nodded, trying to smile, but
the chill thought from the businessman's remark persisted. Very possible
it was that one or more members of a goon squad was among the
twenty-some people now beginning to pick themselves off his worn carpet,
footstool, coffee table and the meager furniture he could afford on his
salary.

With a small start he realized that a youngish woman, in her early
thirties, he guessed, was stalling as though she intended to remain
behind. Sure enough, she closed the door behind the others and turned a
very lovely face to him. "I think you are magnificent, Dr. Long," she
said impulsively. "I hope you will spare me just a few minutes alone?"

Long slipped his right hand into his coat pocket casually. On her feet
the woman displayed more than a beautiful face. Her figure was
alarmingly feminine and rather aggressively displayed, feet akimbo,
hips forward, shoulders back. Her hair was nearly platinum, but so
expensively dressed it was impossible to determine whether it was
artificially so.

She caught his hesitation. "Perhaps you would feel better out on the
porch," she offered, smiling with such relaxed understanding that Long
felt a little boorish.

"No. Sit down, please, I didn't catch your name earlier."

       *       *       *       *       *

"Julie Stone," she introduced herself and held out a long, bare arm. Her
hand squeezed his fingers warmly, more like a man's grip. "My brother is
Senator Stone, and he asked me to stop by and meet you. Secretly he
agrees with much of what you have said, but of course he is reluctant to
expose himself until something of a formal movement is under way."

Long relaxed a little. This was good news, about the first he had had to
date. Political figures were remaining eloquently silent in the press,
and this was the first overture he had enjoyed from anyone more
influential than the reporters.

She went on, "Specifically, my brother would like to know which of the
other two political parties you favor, in the event you make an appeal
through such channels."

"Either party," Long asserted with some emphasis. "In fact I would like
to see a coalition of the Democratic and Republican Parties to overthrow
this unholy Humanist gang."

Her forehead wrinkled. "Precisely Tom's idea. He's not at all certain it
can be done, but he thinks that the press reaction you have had
indicates there is a possibility if it is played right."

"Yes, the so-called free press," he said. "Some people have thrown that
up to me. If the Humanists were dictators, they say, we wouldn't have
this free press that has given my remarks currency. I read it
differently. The Humanists have sold the press a bill of goods, and so
they control the papers in the most effective way of all. You'll notice
that they have printed my speeches strictly as news, you might say as
oddities in the news. Editorial comment has been extremely
noncommittal."

"I hope you are right," Long said. He made a pot of coffee, and they
discussed the matter at some length. He liked this woman's direct, open
approach, but she startled him as she was leaving.

"I have much to tell my brother," she said. "For my own curiosity,
though, are you certain that some personal distrust or dislike for women
hasn't influenced your attack against the government?"

It jarred him like an uppercut. Her detached manner had almost made him
forget she was a woman herself. Now this.

"Why--why do you ask?"

She shrugged. "It was a natural thought. There aren't many confirmed
bachelors these days."

"Oh, that!" He smiled. "You're quite right, there aren't many unattached
men over twenty-one any more, what with the barrage of government
propaganda and their special tax deduction incentives. I assure you that
it's nothing personal, however. My tastes are simply too rich."

"Your tastes?" It was her turn to arch an eyebrow.

"That's right. A lovely woman is a work of art, but like any other
masterpiece, she is a luxury I can't afford. Anyway, this mug of mine
rather put me out of the running in the only leagues I've wanted to play
in. Incidentally, you introduced yourself as _Miss_ Julie Stone, didn't
you?"

"No, but it happens to be correct."

"What's your excuse?"

"For being single? I'm a career girl. I have my own modeling agency. Too
busy for one thing. And I guess a woman gets bored looking at beautiful
men in my business. Not a brain in a barnful. Just beautiful brawn and
wavy hair. Ugh! Animals! Everyone of them."

"Young woman, that's sedition. Don't you believe the government
propaganda?"

"If I did do you think I'd be here? No. Dr. Long, I find your arguments
quite valid. America is in the hands of the feminists, all right, and
it's the fault of several generations of mama's boys. I just can't
get--"

       *       *       *       *       *

She broke off as a heavy truck rolled by out front, back-firing heavily.
They were both silhouetted in the open door. She glanced out, and
suddenly she threw herself upon him, pulling him to the floor. He caught
her in his arms as they cascaded into a tangle of limbs and nylon.

The racket faded off down the street, but Dr. Long's mind was not on the
noise. The touch of this beautiful woman's flesh under his hands
dominated his whole being. How different, how soft, incredibly soft!

Now she was clinging to him, trembling slightly and breathing deeply.
Even at this range her pale hair looked natural. "Are you all right?"
she asked at last.

"Of course," he said sitting up reluctantly. "It was only a truck
back-firing."

"Look!" She pointed behind him at the wall opposite the door. A wavery
line of small, deep holes cut across about heart-high. "I saw the
gun-barrel stick out as the truck came up," she explained, untangling
herself. "It appears your temporary immunity is over. They're getting
active."

Long stared half-unbelieving at the mean, business-like little holes.
With the reactions of a trained semanticist he relaxed instead of
tensing up with fear. He had made his decision days ago, and he knew
full well the risks he incurred.

"Thanks for nothing!" he said coldly.

Julie Stone looked up from straightening her dress and studied his lined
face. "So you really were expecting an attack?" She shook her head in
disgust. "I finally meet a man with some semblance of guts, and the only
way he can think of to win his point is to let a goon squad spill them
in the headlines!"

She threw herself into an armchair and crossed her knees. Long stood in
the middle of the floor staring down at the woman he had held in his
arms minutes ago, and his temples began throbbing. "What--what else is
there to do?" he asked hoarsely. "This was my best chance to draw
attention to the reality of our police state. I have much more to die
for than to live for. This has been my life's work--gathering the facts
and contriving to present them dramatically enough to attract national
attention. My only fear was that they wouldn't come after me, and I
might be written off as a crackpot."

"I regret," she intoned, "that I have but one life to give to my
country!" Then her lip curled. "Very well, brainy, if that's the best
you can think up. Let's make it better yet. How about this for a
headline: _Dr. Long and Lovely Model Murdered by Federal Hoods!_"

"Are you insane?"

She shook her head. "I'm dead serious. I'm sticking right in the line of
fire until you figure out a way to stay alive at a profit."

He argued, pleaded and even lost his temper, pulling her to her feet and
trying to force her out the door. He didn't make it. Somehow his arms
slipped too far around her, and she clamped herself to him in a defiant
embrace. The soft warmth of her body, her sweet breath in his nostrils,
the faint essence of her perfume enveloped him in a befuddling weakness.

Live at a profit? How could a man want to die with Julie Stone in his
arms?

He knew it was supremely idiotic, but the thought of her fabulous form
crumpled and riddled with bullets slashed at the tendons of his resolve,
and he clutched her lips to his with the hunger of the condemned man he
was.

"Julie, Julie! Why did you have to--"

"One bullet, a single bullet will do it now." Her lips peeled back from
her white teeth. "Let's stay this way, darling. That's the way you want
it."

Her low, black sedan nibbled at the 100-mile-per-hour limit on the
Freeway as they crossed the state line. In the back seat, reclining out
of sight, his head pillowed on his brief case full of his documented
case against the Humanist Party, was a very thoughtful Dr. Hubert Long,
recently of Mentioch University.

He had driven until dawn while Julie Stone slept, and now, after a brief
nap, he was waking to some of the realities of the morning.

This flight was utterly absurd. When the federal people discovered he
was not dead they would come after him again and again. All he had done
was involve this lovely woman. Long since he had controlled fear for his
own life, but now he knew the exquisite torment of fearing for the woman
he loved.

The emotion was genuine and no less raging for its swift eruption in the
space of a single evening. Dr. Hubert Long was hopelessly and deeply in
love with Julie Stone.

"Quit worrying," she called back to him. "They couldn't have spotted my
car. I parked it a block from your house, remember?"

"I hope you have a plan," Long muttered. "I certainly don't. Where are
we heading?"

"Florida. To my brother's winter place. You know, I just had a thought.
Tom and I are both on the board of regents of Toppinhout College down
there, and there'll be an opening next quarter in the faculty. A
professorship, in fact."

Long grunted. "No dice. They'll have every political scientist in the
country under scrutiny for years."

"This is the chair of anthropology," she said. "We can change your name,
and after this first excitement of your disappearance dies down--"

"But I don't want it to die down!" he objected.

"I thought we settled that. You've got to stay alive to talk to
important people. Tom and I will round them up secretly, and you can
present your case to them. My brother is the senior Senator, you know,
and he's been itching to bolt the Humanist Party for the last two
terms."

"What can I accomplish in secret conferences? The people are the ones
who must be aroused."

"I know, I know, from a soapbox in Times Square, I suppose. Darling, you
can't accomplish this alone. They've proved they are willing to take the
chance of killing you, so they must be stronger than you think. Your
facts must come to the attention of the right people. Over a period of
time we can organize a truly effective underground."

"Toppinhout is a girls' college."

"So?"

"I've never taught anthropology before."

"You've never been married before, either," she pointed out, "but I
predict you'll be a success at both."

"Married?" Long popped his head up.

       *       *       *       *       *

She smiled at him in the rear-view mirror. "Get your head down before
you get it blown off. Yes, I said married. I'm not trusting that
pug-ugly, beautiful mug of yours out of my sight from now on. And I'm
afraid Tom will shoot you himself if you don't make it conventional.
Tom's old-fashioned."

"But--I couldn't support you on--"

"A full professor's salary? Don't be foolish. Besides, I'm retiring from
my agency. Selling out. That'll set us up housekeeping."

That such a prosaic term as "set us up housekeeping" should send molten
lava racing through his veins, did not seem strange to Dr. Hubert Long.
How could a man successfully keep his mind on dying when at last a work
of art like Julie seemed within his reach? He knew that his plans were
irrevocably changed.

       *       *       *       *       *

Emily Bogarth turned to the phone speaker as her assistant made the
circuit and signalled to her.

"On the Hubert Long mission--" the speaker said. "Mission accomplished
from this end. I trust you have a likely story for the press?"

"Never mind that. Did it come off as planned?"

"Precisely. Your marksmen were quite effective."

Emily Bogarth sighed. "Sorry to sacrifice you, honey, but the other way
is just too messy."

"Don't mention it. This chap has a very interesting mind. He's a
challenge--in more ways than one. By the way, get word to Senator Stone,
will you? Have him fly down to his winter home at once. He'll be needed.
Some Party members, too."

"Of course. That's all set up. Good luck!"

"Thanks, but you can put your mind at rest. Dr. Hubert Long is
positively liquidated."

       *       *       *       *       *

Julie stepped from the phone booth and paid the service attendant for
the gasoline. He looked at her as he dropped the change into her hand
and wondered who the lucky chap in the back seat might be. A man would
sell his soul for the right kind of a look from those green eyes.


THE END




Transcriber's Note:

    This etext was produced from _Amazing Science Fiction Stories_
    October 1958. Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that
    the U.S. copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling
    and typographical errors have been corrected without note.





End of Project Gutenberg's The Deadly Daughters, by Winston K. Marks