by Isaac Asimov
In less intellectualized fashion, she was perfectly aware, with almost the awareness of a professional physiologist, of the quickening of her heartbeat as she took in the planes and curves of his face bent over his work and noted the quick, sure, unwavering motion of his fingers.
Her face remained impassive, however, for she disapproved of the action of her unintellectual heart muscle.
Her mirror told her, plainly enough, that she was not plain. Quite otherwise. Her dark eyes were ingenuously wide-set; her lips reflected quick humor when she let them do so—which wasn’t often; and her figure annoyed her for its apparent propensity for interfering with the proper understanding of her professional competence. It was for her ability she wanted wolf whistles (or their intellectual equivalent) and not for the sinuosity she couldn’t help.
Duval, at least, appreciated her efficiency and seemed unmoved by her attractiveness and for that she admired him the more.
She said, finally, “Benes will be landing in less than thirty minutes, doctor.”
“Hmm.” He looked up. “Why are you here? Your day’s over.”
Cora might have retorted that his was, too, but she knew well that his day was over only when his work was done. She had stayed with him through the sixteenth consecutive hour often enough, although she imagined he would maintain (in all honesty) that he kept her firmly to an eight-hour day.
She said, “I’m waiting to see him.”
“Whom?”
“Benes. Doesn’t it excite you, doctor?”
“No. Why should it?”
“He’s a great scientist, and they say he has important information that will revolutionize all we’re doing.”
“It will, will it?” Duval lifted the photograph on top of the heap, placed it to one side, and turned to the next. “How will it help you with your laser work?”
“It can make the target easier to hit.”
“It already does that. For what Benes will add, only the war-makers will have any use. All Benes will do will be to increase the probability of world destruction.”
“But Dr. Duval, you’ve said that the extension of the technique could be of great importance to the neurophysiologist.”
“Have I? All right, then, I have. But just the same I’d rather you got your proper rest, Miss Peterson.” He looked up again (his voice softening just a bit, perhaps?). “You look tired.”
Cora’s hand lifted halfway to her hair, for translated into the feminine, the word “tired” means “disheveled.” She said, “Once Benes arrives, I will. I promise. —By the way.”
“Yes?”
“Will you be using the laser tomorrow?”
“It’s what I’m trying to decide right now. —If you’ll let me, Miss Peterson.”
“The 6951 model can’t be used.”
Duval put the photograph down, leaned back. “Why not?”
“It’s not reliable enough. I can’t get it to focus properly. I suspect one of the tunnel diodes is faulty but I haven’t located which one yet.”
“All right. You set up one that can be trusted just in case we need it, and do it before you leave. Then tomorrow …”
“Then tomorrow I’ll track down what’s wrong with the 6951.”
“Yes.”
She turned to leave, looked quickly at her watch, and said, “Twenty-one minutes—and they say the plane’s on time.”
He made a vague sound and she knew he hadn’t heard. She left, closing the door behind her slowly, and with muffled silence.
Captain William Owens sank back into the softly cushioned seat of the limousine. He rubbed his sharp nose tiredly and set his wide jaws. He felt the car lift on its firm jets of compressed air, then move forward with absolute levelness. He caught no whisper of the turbo-engine, though five hundred horses champed behind him.
Through the bulletproof windows to right and left, he could see a motorcycle escort. Other cars were before and behind, glimmering the night into a liveness of shielded light.
It made him seem important, this half-an-army of guardians, but it wasn’t for him, of course. It wasn’t even for the man they were going out to meet; not for the man as a man. Only for the contents of a great mind.
The head of the Secret Service was to Owens’ left. It was a sign of the anonymity of the Service that Owens was not sure of the name of this nondescript man who, from rimless glasses to conservative shoes, seemed a college professor—or a haberdasher’s clerk.
“Colonel Gander,” Owens had said, tentatively, on shaking hands.
“Gonder,” was the quiet response. “Good evening, Captain Owens.”
They were on the outskirts of the airfield, now. Somewhere above and ahead, surely not more than a few miles distant, was the archaic plane, preparing for a landing.
“A great day, eh?” said Gonder, softly. Everything about the man seemed to whisper, even the unobtrusive cut of his civilian clothing.
“Yes,” said Owens, striving to keep the tension out of that monosyllable. It was not that he felt particularly tense; it was merely that his voice always seemed to carry that tone. It was that air of tension that seemed to fit his narrow, pinched nose, his slitted eyes, and the high jut of his cheekbones.
He sometimes felt it got in his way. People expected him to be neurotic when he wasn’t. Not more so than others were, anyway. On the other hand, people sometimes got out of his way for just that reason, without his having to lift a hand. Matters evened out, perhaps.
Owens said, “Quite a coup, getting him here. The Service is to be congratulated.”
“The credit belongs to our agent. He’s our best man. His secret, I think, is that he looks like the romantic stereotype of an agent.”
“Looks like one?”
“Tall. Played football at college. Good-looking. Terribly clean-cut. One look at him and any enemy would say: There. That’s what one of Their secret agents ought to look like, so of course, he can’t be one. —And they dismiss him and find out too late that he is one.”
Owens frowned. Was the man serious? Or was he joking because he thought that would bring relief of tension.
Gonder said, “You realize, of course, that your part in this isn’t something to be dismissed off-hand. You will know him, won’t you?”
“I’ll know him,” said Owens, with his short, nervous laugh. “I’ve met him several times at scientific conferences on the Other Side. I got drunk with him one night; well, not really drunk; joyous.”
“Did he talk?”
“I didn’t get him drunk to make him talk. But anyway, he didn’t talk. There was someone else with him. Their scientists go two by two at all times.”
“Did you talk?” The question was light; the intent behind it was clearly not.
Owens laughed again. “Believe me, colonel, there is nothing I know that he doesn’t. I could talk to him all day without harm.”
“I wish I knew something about this. You have my admiration, captain. Here is a technological miracle capable of transforming the world and there are only a handful of men who can understand it. Man’s mind is getting away from man.”
“It’s not that bad, really,” said Owens. “There are quite a lot of us. There’s only one Benes, of course, and I’m miles from being in his class. In fact, I don’t know much more than enough to apply the technique to my ship designs. That’s all.”
“But you’ll recognize Benes?” The Secret Service head seemed to require infinite reassurance.
“Even if he had a twin brother, which I’m sure he doesn’t, I’d recognize him.”
“It’s not exactly an academic point, captain. Our agent, Grant, is good as I’ve said, but even so I am a little surprised that he managed it. I have to ask myself: is there a double-double-cross involved? Did They expect us to try to get Benes and have They prepared a pseudo-Benes?”
“I can tell the difference,” said Owens, confidently.
“You don’t know what can be done these days with plastic surgery and narcohypnos
is.”
“It doesn’t matter. The face can fool me, but the conversation won’t. Either he knows the Technique” (Owens’ momentary whisper clearly capitalized the word) “better than I do or he’s not Benes, whatever he looks like. They can fake Benes’ body, perhaps, but not his mind.”
They were on the field now. Colonel Gonder looked at his watch. “I hear it. The ship will be landing in minutes—and on time.”
Armed men and armored vehicles splayed out to join those that had already surrounded the airfield and turned it into occupied territory sealed off against all but authorized personnel.
The last of the city’s lights had faded out, doing no more than to fuzz the horizon to the left.
Owens’ sigh was one of infinite relief. Benes would be here, at last, in one more moment.
Happy ending?
He frowned at the intonation in his mind that had put a question mark after those two words.
Happy ending! he thought grimly, but the intonation slithered out of control so that it became Happy ending? again.
CHAPTER 2
Car
Grant watched the lights of the city approaching with intense relief as the plane began its long approach. No one had given him any real details as to the importance of Dr. Benes—except for the obvious fact that he was a defecting scientist with vital information. He was the most important man in the world, they had said—and then had neglected to explain why.
Don’t press, they had told him. Don’t throw the grease in the fan by getting tense. But the whole thing is vital, they said. Unbelievably vital.
Take it easy, they had said, but everything depends on it; your country, your world, humanity.
So it was done. He might never have made it if They hadn’t been afraid of killing Benes. By the time They got to the point where They realized that killing Benes was the only way They could salvage even a draw, it was too late and he was out.
A bullet crease over the ribs was all Grant had to show for it and a long band-aid took care of that.
He was tired now, however, tired to the bone. Physically tired, of course, but also tired of the whole crazy foolishness. In his college days, ten years before, they had called him Granite Grant and he had tried to live up to that on the football field, like a dumb jerk. One broken arm was the result but at least he was lucky enough to have kept his teeth and nose intact so that he could retain that craggy set of good looks. (His lips twitched into a silent, flicking smile.)
And since then, too, he had discouraged the use of first names. Only the monosyllabic grunt of Grant. Very masculine. Very strong.
Except to heck with it. What was it getting him except weariness and every prospect of a short life. He had just passed thirty now and it was time to retire to his first name. Charles Grant. Maybe even Charlie Grant. Good Old Charlie Grant!
He winced, but then frowned himself firm again. It had to be. Good Old Charlie. That was it. Good old soft Charlie who likes to sit in an armchair and rock. Hi, Charlie, nice day. Hey, there, Charlie, looks like rain.
Get yourself a soft job, good old Charlie, and snooze your way to your pension.
Grant looked sidewise at Jan Benes. Even he found something familiar about that shock of grizzled hair, the face with its strong, fleshy nose above the untidy, coarse mustache, likewise grizzled. Cartoonists made do with that nose and mustache alone, but there were his eyes, too, nested in fine wrinkles, and there were the horizontal lines that never left his forehead. Benes’ clothes were moderately ill-fitting, but they had left hurriedly, without time for the better tailors. The scientist was pushing fifty, Grant knew, but he looked older.
Benes was leaning forward, watching the lights of the approaching city.
Grant said, “Ever been to this part of the country before, professor?”
“I have never been to any part of your country,” said Benes, “or was that intended to be a trick question?” There was a faint but definite trace of accent in his speech.
“No. Just making conversation. That’s our second largest city up ahead. You can have it, though. I’m from the other end of the country.”
“To me it doesn’t matter. One end. The other end. As long as I’m here. It will be …” He didn’t finish the sentence but there was a sadness in his eyes.
Breaking away is hard, thought Grant, even when you feel you must. He said, “We’ll see to it you have no time to brood, professor. We’ll put you to work.”
Benes retained his sadness. “I’m sure of that. I expect it. It is the price I pay, no?”
“I’m afraid so. You caused us a certain amount of effort, you know.”
Benes put his hand on Grant’s sleeve. “You risked your life. I appreciate that. You might have been killed.”
“I run the chance of being killed as a matter of routine. Occupational hazard. They pay me for it. Not as well as for playing a guitar, you understand, or for hitting a baseball, but about what they feel my life is worth.”
“You can’t dismiss it so.”
“I’ve got to. My organization does. When I come back, there will be a shake of hands and an embarrassed ‘Good work!’ —You know, manly reserve and all that. Then it’s: ‘now for the next assignment and we have to deduct for that band-aid you have on your side. Have to watch expenses.’ ”
“Your game of cynicism doesn’t fool me, young man.”
“It has to fool me, professor, or I would quit.” Grant was almost surprised at the sudden bitterness in his voice. “Strap yourself in, professor. This flying junkheap makes rough landings.”
The plane touched down smoothly, despite Grant’s prediction, and taxied to a stop, turning as it did so.
The Secret Service contingent closed in. Soldiers leaped out of troop-carrying trucks to form a cordon about the plane, leaving a corridor for the motorized stairway steering its way toward the door of the plane.
A convoy of three limousines rolled to near the foot of the stairway.
Owens said, “You’re piling on the security, colonel.”
“Better too much than too little.” His lips moved almost silently in what the astonished Owens recognized to be a quick prayer.
Owens said, “I’m glad he’s here.”
“Not as glad as I am. Planes have blown up in mid-flight before this, you know.”
The door to the plane opened and Grant appeared momentarily at the opening. He look about, then waved.
Colonel Gonder said, “He seems in one piece anyway. Where’s Benes?”
As though in answer to that question, Grant flattened to one side and let Benes squeeze past. Benes stood there smiling for one moment. Carrying one battered suitcase in his hand, he trotted gingerly down the steps. Grant followed. Behind him were the pilot and co-pilot.
Colonel Gonder was at the foot of the stairs. “Professor Benes. Glad to have you here! I’m Gonder; I’ll be in charge of your safety from this point. This is William Owens. You know him, I think.”
Benes’ eyes lit up and his arms went high as he dropped his suitcase. (Colonel Gonder unobtrusively picked it up.)
“Owens! Yes, of course. We got drunk one night together. I remember it well. A long, dull, boring session in the afternoon, where all that was interesting was precisely what one could not say, so that despair settled on me like a gray blanket. At supper, Owens and I met. There were five altogether of his colleagues with him, but I don’t remember the others very well.
“But Owens and I, we went to a little club afterward, with dancing and jazz, and we drank schnapps, and Owens was very friendly with one of the girls. You remember Jaroslavic, Owens?”
“The fellow who was with you?” ventured Owens.
“Exactly. He loved schnapps with a love that passeth understanding, but he was not allowed to drink. He had to stay sober. Strict orders.”
“To watch you?”
Benes signified assent by a single long vertical movement of his head and a sober out-thrusting of his lower lips. “I kept offering him
liquor. I said, here, Milan, a dusty throat is bad for a man, and he had to keep refusing, but with his heart in his eyes. It was wicked of me.”
Owens smiled and nodded. “But let’s get into the limousine and get down to Headquarters. We’ll have to show you around, first, and let everyone see you’re here. After that, I promise you that you’ll sleep for twenty-four hours if you want to before we ask you any questions.”
“Sixteen will do. But first,” he looked about anxiously. “Where is Grant? Ach, there is Grant.”
He pushed toward the young agent. “Grant!” he held out his hand, “Good-bye. Thank you. Thank you very much. I will see you again, not so?”
“Could be,” said Grant. “I’m an easy man to see. Just look for the nearest rotten job, and I’ll be right there on top of it.”
“I’m glad you took this rotten one.”
Grant reddened. “This rotten one had an important point to it, professor. Glad to be of help. I mean that.”
“I know. Good-bye! Good-bye!” Benes waved, stepped back toward the limousine.
Grant turned to the colonel, “Will I be breaking security if I knock off now, chief?”
“Go ahead … And by the way, Grant …”
“Yes, sir?”
“Good work!”
“The expression, sir, is: ‘Jolly good show.’ I don’t answer to anything else.” He touched a sardonic forefinger to his temple and walked off.
Exit Grant, he thought; then: Enter Good Old Charlie?
The colonel turned to Owens. “Get in with Benes and talk to him. I’ll be in the car ahead. And then when we get to Headquarters, I want you to be ready with a firm identification, if you have one; or a firm denial, if you have one. I don’t want anything else.”
“He remembered that drinking episode,” said Owens.
“Exactly,” said the colonel, discontentedly, “he remembered it a little too quickly and a little too well. Talk to him.”
They were all in, and the cavalcade moved off, picking up speed. From a distance, Grant watched, waved blindly at no one in particular, then moved off again.
