The Deadly Daughters

: The Deadly Daughters

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 he 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."






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.