lamp. Shandor dumped the contents of the briefcaseonto the desk, and settled down, his heart pounding in his throat. Hestarted at the top of the pile, sifting, ripping out huge sheafs ofpapers, receipts, notes, journals, clippings. He hardly noticed when thegirl slipped out of the room, and he was deep in study when she returnedhalf an hour later with steaming black coffee. With a grunt of thanks hedrank it, never shifting his attention from the scatter of papers,papers from the personal file of a dead man. And slowly, the pictureunfolded.
An ugly picture. A picture of deceit, a picture full of lies, full ofsecret promises, a picture of scheming, of plotting, planning,influencing, coercing, cheating, propagandizing--all with onesingle-minded aim, with a single terrible goal.
Shandor read, numbly, his mind twisting in protest as the pictureunfolded. David Ingersoll's control of Dartmouth Bearing Corporation andits growing horde of subsidiaries under the figurehead of his protege,Harry Dartmouth. The huge profits from the Chinese war, the relaxationof control laws, the millions of war-won dollars ploughed back intogovernment bonds, in a thousand different names, all controlled byDartmouth Bearing Corporation--
And Ingersoll's own work in the diplomatic field--an incrediblyskillful, incredibly evil channeling of power and pressure toward theinevitable goal, hidden under the cloak of peaceful respectability andpopular support. The careful treaties, quietly disorganizing a dozennational economics, antagonizing the great nation to the East under theall too acceptable guise of "peace through strength." Reciprocal tradeagreements bitterly antagonistic to Russian economic development. Thecontinual bickering, the skillful manipulation hidden under the powerfulpropaganda cloak of a hundred publications, all coursing to oneultimate, terrible goal, all with one purpose, one aim--
War. War with anybody, war in the field and war on the diplomatic front.Traces even remained of the work done within the enemy nations, bitteranti-Ingersoll propaganda from within the ranks of Russia herself,manipulated to strengthen Ingersoll in America, to build him up, todrive the nations farther apart, while presenting Ingersoll as thepathetic prince of world peace, fighting desperately to stop theponderous wheels of the irresistible juggernaut--
And in America, the constant, unremitting literary and editorialdrumbeating, pressuring greater war preparation, distilling hatreds in athousand circles, focussing them into a single channel. Tremendouspropaganda pressure to build armies, to build weapons, to get theMoon-rocket project underway--
Shandor sat back, eyes drooping, fighting to keep his eyes open. Hismind was numb, his body trembling. A sheaf of papers in a separatefolder caught his eye, production records of the Dartmouth BearingCorporation, almost up to the date of Ingersoll's death. Shandorfrowned, a snag in the chain drawing his attention. He peered at thepapers, vaguely puzzled. Invoices from the Chicago plant, materials fortanks, and guns, and shells. Steel, chemicals. The same for the NewJersey plant, the same with a dozen subsidiary plants. Shipments ofmagnesium and silver wire to the Rocket Project in Arizona, carriedthrough several subsidiary offices. The construction of a hugecalculator for the Project in Arizona. Motors and materials, all forArizona--something caught his mind, brought a frown to his large blandface, some off-key note in the monstrous symphony of production andintrigue that threw up a red flag in his mind, screamed for attention--
And then he sipped the fresh coffee at his elbow and sighed, and lookedup at the girl standing there, saw her hand tremble as she steadiedherself against the desk, and sat down beside him. He felt a greatconfusion, suddenly, a vast sympathy for this girl, and he wanted totake her in his arms, hold her close, _protect_ her, somehow. She didn'tknow, she _couldn't_ know about this horrible thing. She couldn't havebeen a party to it, a part of it. He knew the evidence said yes, sheknows the whole story, she _helped_ them, but he also knew that theevidence, somehow, was wrong, that somehow, he still didn't have thewhole picture--
She looked at him, her voice trembling. "You're wrong, Tom," she said.
He shook his head, helplessly. "I'm sorry. It's horrible, I know. ButI'm not wrong. This war was planned. We've been puppets on strings, andone man engineered it, from the very start. Your father."
Her eyes were filled with tears, and she shook her head, running a tiredhand across her forehead. "You didn't know him, Tom. If you did, you'dknow how wrong you are. He was a great man, fine man, but above all hewas a _good_ man. Only a monster could have done what you're thinking.Dad hated war, he fought it all his life. He couldn't be the monster youthink."
Tom's voice was soft in the darkened room, his eyes catching thedowncast face of the trembling girl, fighting to believe in a phantom,and his hatred for the power that could trample a faith like thatsuddenly swelled up in bitter hopeless rage. "It's here, on paper, itcan't be denied. It's hateful, but it's here, it's what I set out tolearn. It's not a lie this time, Ann, it's the truth, and this time it's_got to be told_. I've written my last false story. This one is going tothe people the way it is. This one is going to be the truth."
He stopped, staring at her. The puzzling, twisted hole in the puzzle wassuddenly there, staring him in the face, falling down into place in hismind with blazing clarity. Staring, he dived into the pile of papersagain, searching, frantically searching for the missing piece, somethinghe had seen, and passed over, the one single piece in the story thatdidn't make sense. And he found it, on the lists of materials shipped tothe Nevada plant. Pig Iron. Raw magnesium. Raw copper. Steel, electrontubes, plastics, from all parts of the country, all being shipped to theDartmouth Plant in Nevada--
_Where they made only_ shells--
At first he thought it was only a rumble in his mind, the shockingrealization storming through. Then he saw Ann jump up suddenly,white-faced and race to the window, and he heard the small scream in herthroat. And then the rumbling grew louder, stronger, and the housetrembled. He heard the whine of jet planes scream over the house as hejoined her at the window, heard the screaming whines mingled with therumbling thunder. And far away, on the horizon, the red glare wasglowing, rising, burning up to a roaring conflagration in the blacknight sky--
"Washington!" Her voice was small, infinitely frightened.
"Yes. That's Washington."
"Then it really _has_ started." She turned to him with eyes wide withhorror, and snuggled up to his chest like a frightened child. "Oh,Tom--"
"It's here. What we've been waiting for. What your father started couldnever be stopped any other way than this--"
The roar was louder now, rising to a whining scream as another squad ofdark ships roared overhead, moving East and South, jets whistling in thenight. "This is what your father wanted."
She was crying, great sobs shaking her shoulders. "You're wrong, you'rewrong--oh, Tom, you must be wrong--"
His voice was low, almost inaudible in the thundering roar of thebombardment. "Ann, I've got to go ahead. I've got to go tonight. ToNevada, to the Dartmouth plant there. I know I'm right, but I have togo, to check something--to make sure of something." He paused, lookingdown at her. "I'll be back, Ann. But I'm afraid of what I'll find outthere. I need you behind me. Especially with what I have to do, I needyou. You've got to decide. Are you for me? Or against me?"
She shook her head sadly, and sank into a chair, gently removing hishands from her waist. "I loved my father, Tom," she said in a beatenvoice. "I can't help what he's done--I loved him. I--I can't be withyou, Tom."
* * * * *
Far below him he could see the cars jamming the roads leavingWashington. He could almost hear the noise, the screeching of brakes,the fistfights, the shouts, the blatting of horns. He moved south overopen country, hoping to avoid the places where the 'copter might bespotted and stopped for questioning. He knew that Hart would have analarm out for him by now, and he didn't dare risk being stopped until hereached his destination, the place where the last piece to the puzzlecould be found, the answer to the question that was burning through hismind. Shells were made of steel and chemicals. The tools that
made themwere also made of steel. Not manganese. Not copper. Not electron relays,nor plastic, nor liquid oxygen. Just steel.
The 'copter relayed south and then turned west over Kentucky. Shandorchecked the auxiliary tanks which he had filled at the Library landingfield that morning; then he turned the ship to robot controls and sankback in the seat to rest. His whole body clamored for sleep, but he knewhe dare not sleep. Any slip, any contact with Army aircraft or Securitypatrol could throw everything into the fire-- For hours he sat, gazinghypnotically at the black expanse of land below, flying high over thepitch-black countryside. Not a light showed, not a sign of life.
Bored, he flipped the radio button, located a news
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