for the preliminary stories on his death. Okay?"
"That's not enough time." Shandor's voice was tight.
"It's enough for a buffer-release." Hart scowled at him, his round facered and annoyed. "Look, Tom, you get that story in, and never mind whatyou like or don't like. This is dynamite you're playing with--theConference is going to be on the rocks in a matter of hours--that'sstraight from the Undersecretary--and on top of it all, there's troubledown in Arizona--"
Shandor's eyes widened. "The Rocket Project--?"
Hart's mouth twisted. "Sabotage. They picked up a whole ring that's beenoperating for over a year. Caught them red-handed, but not before theyburnt out half a calculator wing. They'll have to move in new machinesnow before they can go on--set the Project back another week, and thatcould lose the war for us right there. Now _get that story in_." Hesnapped the switch down, leaving Shandor blinking at the darkenedscreen.
Ten minutes later Ann Ingersoll joined him in the restaurant booth. Shewas wearing a chic white linen outfit, with her hair fresh, like ablonde halo around her head in the fading evening light. Her freshnesscontrasted painfully with Tom's curling collar and dirty tie, and hesuddenly wished he'd picked up a shave. He looked up and grunted when hesaw the fat briefcase under the girl's arm, and she dropped it on thetable between them and sank down opposite him, studying his face. "Thereading didn't go so well," she said.
"The reading went lousy," he admitted sheepishly. "This the personalfile?"
She nodded shortly and lit a cigarette. "The works. They didn't evenbother me. But I can't see why all the precaution-- I mean, the expressand all that--"
Shandor looked at her sharply. "If what you said this morning was true,that file is a gold mine, for us, but more particularly, for yourfather's enemies. I'll go over it closely when I get out of here.Meantime, there are one or two other things I want to talk over withyou."
She settled herself, and grinned. "Okay, boss. Fire away."
He took a deep breath, and tiredness lined his face. "First off: whatdid your father do before he went into politics?"
Her eyes widened, and she arrested the cigarette halfway to her mouth,put it back on the ashtray, with a puzzled frown on her face. "That'sfunny," she said softly. "I thought I knew, but I guess I don't. He wasan industrialist--way, far back, years and years ago, when I was just alittle brat--and then we got into the war with China, and I don't knowwhat he did. He was always making business trips; I can remember goingto the airport with mother to meet him, but I don't know what he did.Mother always avoided talking about him, and I never got to see himenough to talk--"
Shandor sat forward, his eyes bright. "Did he ever entertain anybusiness friends during that time--any that you can remember?"
She shook her head. "I can't remember. Seems to me a man or two camehome with him on a couple of occasions, but I don't know who. I don'tremember much before the night he came home and said he was going to runfor Congress. Then there were people galore--have been ever since."
"And what about his work at the end of the China war? After he waselected, while he was doing all that work to try to smooth things outwith Russia--can you remember him saying anything, to you, or to yourmother, about _what_ he was doing, and how?"
She shook her head again. "Oh, yes, he'd talk--he and mother wouldtalk--sometimes argue. I had the feeling that things weren't too wellwith mother and dad many times. But I can't remember anything specific,except that he used to say over and over how he hated the thought ofanother war. He was afraid it was going to come--"
Shandor looked up sharply. "But he hated it--"
"Yes." Her eyes widened. "Oh, yes, he hated it. Dad was a good man, Tom.He believed with all his heart that the people of the world wantedpeace, and that they were being dragged to war because they couldn'tfind any purpose to keep them from it. He believed that if the people ofthe world had a cause, a purpose, a driving force, that there wouldn'tbe any more wars. Some men fought him for preaching peace, but hewouldn't be swayed. Especially he hated the pure-profit lobbies, thepatriotic drum-beaters who stood to get rich in a war. But dad had todie, and there aren't many men like him left now, I guess."
"I know." Shandor fell silent, stirring his coffee glumly. "Tell me," hesaid, "did your father have anything to do with a man named Mariel?"
Ann's eyes narrowed. "Frank Mariel? He was the newspaper man. Yes, dadhad plenty to do with him. He hated dad's guts, because dad fought hiswriting so much. Mariel was one of the 'fight now and get rich' schoolthat were continually plaguing dad."
"Would you say that they were enemies?"
She bit her lip, wrinkling her brow in thought. "Not at first. More likea big dog with a little flea, at first. Mariel pestered dad, and dadtried to scratch him away. But Mariel got into PIB, and then I supposeyou could call them enemies--"
Shandor sat back, frowning, his face dark with fatigue. He stared at thetable top for a long moment, and when he looked up at the girl his eyeswere troubled. "There's something wrong with this," he said softly. "Ican't quite make it out, but it just doesn't look right. Those newspaperstories I read--pure bushwa, from beginning to end. I'm dead certain ofit. And yet--" he paused, searching for words. "Look. It's like I'mlooking at a jigsaw puzzle that _looks_ like it's all completed andlying out on the table. But there's something that tells me I'm beingfoxed, that it isn't a complete puzzle at all, just an illusion, yetsomehow I can't even tell for sure where pieces are missing--"
The girl leaned over the table, her grey eyes deep with concern. "Tom,"she said, almost in a whisper. "Suppose there _is_ something, Tom.Something big, what's it going to do to _you_, Tom? You can't fightanything as powerful as PIB, and these men that hated dad could breakyou."
Tom grinned tiredly, his eyes far away. "I know," he said softly. "But aman can only swallow so much. Somewhere, I guess, I've still got aconscience--it's a nuisance, but it's still there." He looked closely atthe lovely girl across from him. "Maybe it's just that I'm tired ofbeing sick of myself. I'd like to _like_ myself for a change. I haven'tliked myself for years." He looked straight at her, his voice very smallin the still booth. "I'd like some other people to like me, too. So I'vegot to keep going--"
Her hand was in his, then, grasping his fingers tightly, and her voicewas trembling. "I didn't think there was anybody left like that," shesaid. "Tom, you aren't by yourself--remember that. No matter whathappens, I'm with you all the way. I'm--I'm afraid, but I'm with you."
He looked up at her then, and his voice was tight. "Listen, Ann. Yourfather planned to go to Berlin before he died. What was he going to _do_if he went to the Berlin Conference?"
She shrugged helplessly. "The usual diplomatic fol-de-rol, I suppose. Healways--"
"No, no--that's not right. He wanted to go so badly that he died when hewasn't allowed to, Ann. He must have had something in mind, somethingconcrete, something tremendous. Something that would have changed thepicture a great deal."
And then she was staring at Shandor, her face white, grey eyes wide. "Ofcourse he had something," she exclaimed. "He _must_ have--oh, I don'tknow what, he wouldn't say what was in his mind, but when he came homeafter that meeting with the President he was furious-- I've never seenhim so furious, Tom, he was almost out of his mind with anger, and hepaced the floor, and, swore and nearly tore the room apart. He wouldn'tspeak to anyone, just stamped around and threw things. And then we heardhim cry out, and when we got to him he was unconscious on the floor, andhe was dead when the doctor came--" She set her glass down withtrembling fingers. "He had something big, Tom, I'm sure of it. He hadsome information that he planned to drop on the conference table withsuch a bang it would stop the whole world cold. _He knew something_that the conference doesn't know--"
Tom Shandor stood up, trembling, and took the briefcase. "It should behere," he said. "If not the whole story, at least the missing pieces."He started for the booth door. "Go home," he said. "I'm going where Ican examine these files without any interference. Then I'll call you."And then
he was out the door, shouldering his way through the crowdedrestaurant, frantically weaving his way to the street. He didn't hearAnn's voice as she called after him to stop, didn't see her stop at thebooth door, watch in a confusion of fear and tenderness, and collapseinto the booth, sobbing as if her
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