of McAllen's sunburned neck and the wisps ofunclipped white hair sticking out beneath his beaked fishing cap.Barney had learned to estimate accurately the capacity for physicalviolence in people he dealt with. He would have offered long odds thatneither Dr. McAllen nor Fredericks, the elderly colored man of allwork, had the capacity. But Barney's right hand, slid idly into thepocket of his well-tailored coat, was resting on a twenty-five caliberrevolver. This was, after all, a very unusual situation. The humanfactors in themselves were predictable. Human factors were Barney'sspecialty. But here they were involved with something unknown--theMcAllen Tube.
When it was a question of his personal safety, Barney Chard preferredto take no chances at all.
From the top of the worn wooden steps leading up to the cabin, heglanced back at the lake. It occurred to him there should have been atleast a suggestion of unreality about that placid body of water, andthe sun low and red in the west beyond it. Not that he felt anythingof the kind. But less than an hour ago they had been sitting inMcAllen's home in Southern California, and beyond the olive-greenwindow shades it had been bright daylight.
"But I can't ... I really can't imagine," Dr. McAllen had justfinished bumbling, his round face a study of controlled dismay on theother side of the desk, "whatever could have brought you to these ...these extraordinary conclusions, young man."
Barney had smiled reassuringly, leaning back in his chair. "Well,indirectly, sir, as the pictures indicate, we might say it was yourinterest in fishing. You see, I happened to notice you on Mallorcalast month...."
* * * * *
By itself, the chance encounter on the island had seemed onlymoderately interesting. Barney was sitting behind the wheel of anancient automobile, near a private home in which a businessnegotiation of some consequence was being conducted. The businessunder discussion happened to be Barney's, but it would have beeninexpedient for him to attend the meeting in person. Waiting for hisassociates to wind up the matter, he was passing time by studying anold man who was fishing from a small boat offshore, a hundred yards orso below the road. After a while the old fellow brought the boat in,appeared a few minutes later along the empty lane carrying his tackleand an apparently empty gunny sack, and trudged unheedingly past theautomobile and its occupant. As he went by, Barney had a sudden senseof recognition. Then, in a flash, his mind jumped back twelve years.
Dr. Oliver B. McAllen. Twelve years ago the name had been an importantone in McAllen's field; then it was not so much forgotten asdeliberately buried. Working under government contract at one of thebig universities, McAllen had been suddenly and quietly retired.Barney, who had a financial interest in one of the contracts, had madeinquiries; he was likely to be out of money if McAllen had been takenfrom the job. Eventually he was informed, in strict confidence, thatDr. McAllen had flipped. Under the delusion of having made a discoveryof tremendous importance, he had persuaded the authorities to arrangea demonstration. When the demonstration ended in complete failure,McAllen angrily accused some of his most eminent colleagues of havingsabotaged his invention, and withdrew from the university. To protecta once great scientist's name, the matter was being hushed up.
So Mallorca was where the addled old physicist had elected to end hisdays--not a bad choice either, Barney had thought, gazing after theretreating figure. Pleasant island in a beautiful sea--he rememberedhaving heard about McAllen's passion for angling.
A day later, the Mallorca business profitably concluded, Barney flewback to Los Angeles. That evening he entertained a pair of tanned andshapely ladies whose idea of high fun was to drink all night and godeep-sea fishing at dawn. Barney shuddered inwardly at the latternotion, but promised to see the sporting characters to the SweetwaterBeach Municipal Pier in time to catch a party boat, and did so. One ofthe girls, he noticed not without satisfaction--he had become a littletired of the two before morning--appeared to turn a delicate green asshe settled herself into the gently swaying half-day boat beside thewharf. Barney waved them an amiable farewell and was about to go whenhe noticed a plump old man sitting in the stern of the boat amongother anglers, rigging up his tackle. Barney checked sharply, andblinked. He was looking at Oliver B. McAllen again.
It was almost a minute before he felt sure of it this time. Not thatit was impossible for McAllen to be sitting in that boat, but it didseem extremely unlikely. McAllen didn't look in the least like a manwho could afford nowadays to commute by air between the Mediterraneanand California. And Barney felt something else trouble him obscurelyas he stared down at the old scientist; a notion of some kind wasstirring about in the back corridors of his mind, but refused to bedrawn to view just then.
* * * * *
He grew aware of what it was while he watched the party boat head outto sea a few minutes later, smiled at what seemed an impossiblyfanciful concoction of his unconscious, and started towards the pier'sparking lot. But when he had reached his car, climbed in, turned onthe ignition, and lit a cigarette, the notion was still with him andBarney was no longer smiling. Fanciful it was, extremely so.Impossible, in the strict sense, it was not. The longer he played itaround, the more he began to wonder whether his notion mightn't holdwater after all. If there was anything to it, he had run into one ofthe biggest deals in history.
Later Barney realized he would still have let the matter drop there ifit hadn't been for other things, having nothing to do with Dr.McAllen. He was between operations at present. His time wasn'toccupied. Furthermore he'd been aware lately that ordinary operationshad begun to feel flat. The kick of putting over a deal, even on someother hard, bright character of his own class, unaccountably wasfading. Barney Chard was somewhat frightened because the operator gamewas the only one he'd ever found interesting; the other role ofwell-heeled playboy wasn't much more than a manner of killing time. Atthirty-seven he was realizing he was bored with life. He didn't likethe prospect.
Now here was something which might again provide him with some genuineexcitement. It could be simply his imagination working overtime, butit wasn't going to do any harm to find out. Mind humming with pleasedthough still highly skeptical speculations, Barney went back to theboat station and inquired when the party boat was due to return.
He was waiting for it, well out of sight, as it came chugging up tothe wharf some hours later. He had never had anything to do directlywith Dr. McAllen, so the old man wouldn't recognize him. But he didn'twant to be spotted by his two amazons who might feel refreshed enoughby now to be ready for another tour of the town.
He needn't have worried. The ladies barely made it to the top of thestairs; they phoned for a cab and were presently whisked away. Dr.McAllen meanwhile also had made a telephone call, and settled down notfar from Barney to wait. A small gray car, five or six years old butof polished and well-tended appearance, trundled presently up thepier, came into the turnaround at the boat station, and stopped. Athin old Negro, with hair as white as the doctor's, held the door openfor McAllen. The car moved unhurriedly off with them.
The automobile's license number produced Dr. McAllen's Californiaaddress for Barney a short while later. The physicist lived inSweetwater Beach, fifteen minutes' drive from the pier, in an oldSpanish-type house back in the hills. The chauffeur's name was JohnEmanuel Fredericks; he had been working for McAllen for an unknownlength of time. No one else lived there.
Barney didn't bother with further details about the Sweetwater Beachestablishment at the moment. The agencies he usually employed to digup background information were reasonably trustworthy, but he wantedto attract no more attention than was necessary to his interest in Dr.McAllen.
That evening he took a plane to New York.
* * * * *
Physicist Frank Elby was a few years older than Barney, anacquaintance since their university days. Elby was ambitious, capable,slightly dishonest; on occasion he provided Barney with contrabandinformation for which he was generously paid.
Over lunch B
arney broached a business matter which would befinancially rewarding to both of them, and should not burden Elby'sconscience unduly. Elby reflected, and agreed. The talk became moregeneral. Presently Barney remarked, "Ran into an old acquaintance ofours the other day. Remember Dr. McAllen?"
"Oliver B. McAllen? Naturally. Haven't heard about him in years.What's he doing?"
Barney said he had only seen the old man, hadn't spoken to him. But hewas sure it was McAllen.
"Where was this?" Elby asked.
"Sweetwater Beach. Small town down the Coast."
Elby nodded. "It must have been McAllen. That's where he had hishome."
"He was looking hale and hearty. They didn't actually institutionalizehim at the time of his retirement, did they?"
"Oh, no. No reason for it. Except on
Gone Fishing Page 2
