Thin Air

by George Simpson

  "I promised to keep in touch," he said.

  "I didn't quite believe you. Harold's dead: we don't need to worry about his records anymore."

  "Look, I don't know how much we still have in common, but we do have things to talk about."

  There was a long silence, then she asked, "What are you doing in Los Angeles?"

  "Well, business, actually—"

  "Look, Nicky," she interrupted, "I never was interested in your work and you wouldn't share it with me anyway, so don't bring it to me now...." She hesitated. "Unless you've found out something...?"

  He hesitated, wanting to tell her, to take her into his confidence because he believed she could be trusted, but then she might become a target, too, and he didn't want that.

  Then what did he want?

  "How about dinner tonight?" he asked.

  There was a long hesitation, then she said, "I don't feel like wearing black in public, so you'd better come here. Take pot luck."

  "You're on." He copied down the address and hung up, not knowing whether to be elated or scared. He hurried over to the Motor Pool and checked out a car. He had no trouble; his reputation hadn't preceded him.

  It was an impressive building half a block long, set among acres of undeveloped industrial land on the east side of Manhattan Beach. A huge marble sign identified the firm in gold letters a foot high: MICRO-TECHNOLOGY LABORATORIES.

  Hammond parked and walked to the entrance. The olive drab building was cold and sterile with a polarized glass façade and manicured landscaping. The sky was overcast; the bleakness of it all gave him the willies.

  He walked through electric-eye doors and found himself inside a narrow but tall lobby, fully three stories high. A security man guarded the inner entrance. There was a reception desk in the center of the foyer.

  On the wall over the inner entrance was an enormous blowup, a photograph of the plant with some impressive copy set across it:

  MTL CONTRIBUTIONS

  TO PROJECT TRANSAT:

  TranSat Integrating Contractor

  Structural and Thermal Systems

  Data Acquisition and Processing

  Power Control and Distribution

  Flight System Software Aeroshell

  Orbiter Communications

  Computer Command System

  Data Storage Memory

  Communications Sequencing Computer

  Attitude Control System

  What in hell would a firm this solidly entrenched in multimillion-dollar space contracts want with something as weird as Thin Air?

  It struck Hammond he might be barking up the wrong tree with respect to Traben. But he had to see him first. He marched up to the reception desk, showed his ID, and explained he was here on government business.

  "Ordinarily, Dr. Traben sees visitors only by appointment," the ex-CIA type said. "This may take a while."

  "Enjoy yourself," said Hammond. They were going to check his credentials. Good. That saved him the problem of informing Gault of his whereabouts. And it minimized the risk that he might disappear while visiting Micro-Tech. He sat down calmly in the lobby and waited.

  Forty minutes later, an enormous bull of a man banged through the lobby and lurched over to meet him. He was so big his shoulders preceded him; he walked on the balls of his feet. He was dressed in a plain gray suit with the coat open and flapping so that anyone could see he packed a gun—a little .38 stuffed into-a- hip holster. But he had a big friendly face.

  "Commander Hammond, I'm Joe Coogan, Chief of Security for MTL," he said, and threw out a meaty paw. Hammond shook it. "We're in the same profession," Coogan said with a smile. "So, what can we do for you?"

  "Well, I really came here to speak with Dr. Traben, if that's all right."

  "Sure it's all right," Coogan reassured him. "It's just going to take some time. He's a very busy man."

  "—And would I like, to come back tomorrow, is that it?"

  "Nor at all," Coogan said absently, checking his watch. "Come on, we have time. Let me show you around."

  Hammond followed him, surprised. He had thought they were going to brush him off, but instead they were going to romance him.

  Coogan gave him a mini-tour of the plant, explaining some of the projects they were involved in and showing him some very impressive equipment. And along the way Coogan did a little pumping: "We do tremendous business with the Navy, designing the micro-electronics for some very sophisticated guidance systems and newfangled radar transponders. You ever get into any of that, Commander?"

  "Not lately."

  "I find it fascinating. I'm bananas for gadgets, buttons, and the like. MTL has an almost 99 percent success factor with their Naval applications. You aware of that?"

  "No."

  "Almost never have failures. We're conscientious—that's why we get contracts. I'm sure the NIS uses some of our equipment."

  "No, not that I—" Suddenly Hammond recalled that no one had identified the most sophisticated of the little bugging chips that had been planted in his office. This one is for Gault, he said to himself, as he took a wild shot: "Oh, we are looking over a brand-new sort of listening device. It's about yea-big...." He demonstrated with finger and thumb. Coogan didn't bat an eye. "Wouldn't have some of those around, would you? I could show you which one."

  Coogan laughed. "I'm afraid not, Commander. That stuff is all top secret. I can't even admit we make those things. In order to show you anything like that I'd have to see clearance."

  "Of course." Hammond smiled at the double-talk.

  "But if the Navy's interested, I'm sure we'd like to be involved."

  Cool. Very cool. Hammond moved to the next door.

  "Oh, not that way. Back out the way we came."

  Hammond continued smiling. He liked unsettling this big cheese. It was fun playing cat and mouse and being the calf for a change. Then he thought back to that cold road outside of Taos, the two tons of steel pursuing him. It would have to have been a big fellow maneuvering that truck....

  Coogan's bulk followed him through the door and they walked in silence down the hall until Hammond asked, "Job keep you close to home?"

  "Sure does," Coogan replied. "We're very security-conscious. I hardly get a chance to travel even as far as San Diego. My wife's been complaining for years."

  Hammond took another stab in the dark: "Not like being in the Navy, is it? All that travel...When did you get your discharge?"

  Coogan didn't answer. He was already reaching for a door. His smile was automatic as he ushered Hammond through to Edmond Traben's outer office.

  "Secretary's right over there, Commander. Emily, this is Commander Hammond. He's cleared to see the chief."

  "Thank you, Joe," smiled Emily.

  Coogan was gone before Hammond could thank him.

  "Please have a seat, Commander. I'm afraid it's going to be a few minutes."

  Hammond sat down, smugly contemplating the man in the inner sanctum, wondering if he was disappointed to learn this Naval bloodhound was still alive. So far, no one else seemed upset.

  The few minutes became thirty before Hammond found himself face-to-face with Edmond Traben.

  He turned out to be sixty-odd years old, balding, with piercing blue eyes and a thin, pinched face. He was sleek and trim and well-dressed, the epitome of a successful businessman. He was lighting a pipe as Hammond stepped in and used it to wave Hammond toward a bulging leather chair.

  "Well, Commander," he said quickly, "I'm sure you have a reason for this visit."

  Hammond smiled. "I'm here to inquire about Project Thin Air."

  Traben was expressionless for a second, then blew out a cloud of smoke. "I didn't realize anybody was still interested in that." He looked back at Hammond and spread his hands expansively. "Great period in my life, you know."

  "Maybe you could explain your involvement...in your own words."

  Traben grunted and said, "I believe the project is still Classified. I would need assurances that you're clea
red to look into it."

  "I'm sure your security chief has already verified me. But I'll add that I know what Thin Air was; I know the names of a lot of the people involved, and I'm on direct assignment from NIS."

  Traben sat forward and rested his arms on the desk. He seemed alarmed. "I hope this doesn't mean the government is thinking of reactivating the project."

  "Would that bother you?"

  "Of course. I'd hate to see them waste the money."

  "You wouldn't be...wasting money on it yourself, would you, Doctor?"

  Traben shook his head so quickly he must have known the question was coming. "I find it hard enough to get financing for viable enterprises. I wouldn't think of wasting 1 my own money on it."

  "Yet you thoroughly believed in it—for about thirteen years.

  "I believed in Santa Claus, too, once upon a time. But mass hypnosis and disorientation are passé in this day and age."

  Hammond perked up. "What?"

  Traben looked at him with suspicion. "Commander, if you really know about Thin Air, then you know that's what it was: a method of rendering the enemy impotent by leading him to believe he was disoriented, "so he wouldn't be able to function or fight."

  Hammond felt something clutch inside him. He smiled weakly and asked about the Sturman.

  "Experimental vessel. We subjected her entire crew to our device and it succeeded. They were disoriented as hell."

  "Why did you need a ship? Why not controlled lab facilities?"

  "The Sturman was a controlled lab facility. We had to have the isolation of an expanse of sea in case the field spread too far."

  "If it was successful, why was it never used in combat?"

  "Unfortunately, there were aftereffects, psychological problems that lingered on."

  "For how long?"

  "I would imagine they are still extant if any of the crew are left alive. They would probably be under treatment, even today."

  He seemed appropriately grim about that. Hammond asked if he knew personally of any crewmen under treatment. He shook his head.

  "The War Department decided not to employ our device, afraid that the enemy powers would retaliate with something even more insidious. Possibly chemical warfare. So they opted for the big effect, the blow that would end everything: the atom bomb."

  "But you and Rinehart stayed with the project until 1955."

  Traben's eyes grew dark and cloudy. He was silent a moment, then began to speak about Rinehart as if he were describing an unpleasant relative. "He was a maniac who couldn't see the possibilities. He tried to get everything stopped. I had to fight him at every turn. He became convinced we were experimenting with something preposterous and doing unspeakable things to human beings!"

  Quietly, Hammond asked, "Were you?"

  "Good Lord, no!" Traben barked.

  "Rinehart claimed the project dealt with invisibility," said Hammond. "If that's not true, then why was it called Thin Air?"

  Traben was patient. "The thrust of the disorientation technique was to make the enemy believe he was confronting an invisible adversary. In that sense, the name was quite proper. Besides, the War Department had a pixie sense of humor. You recall Overlord, Torch, and Market-Garden?"

  Traben smiled at his point, then his eyes narrowed. "I gather you've been talking to Rinehart...."

  "I've seen him, yes."

  "He's a totally unbalanced man!" Traben exclaimed. "He ended up writing books about flying saucers!" He burst out laughing.

  Hammond smiled thinly. "Yes, that is damaging to a reputation, isn't it?"

  "What people do with their lives is their business, Commander," Traben lectured, "but when they invent stories about impossible plots against humanity and insist they are true, it's more than irresponsible. It's criminal!"

  "What plots? The man wrote about the conceivable existence of flying saucers. He never insisted they were invaders."

  Traben stared at him, then relaxed, tamping his pipe.

  Hammond said, "I should probably have a talk with Dr. Kurtnauer."

  "What for?"

  "According to Rinehart, you went out of your way to get Kurtnauer kicked off the project."

  Traben looked at him for a long moment, then said, "That's just what I mean. Rinehart is crazy. Dr. Kurtnauer is working for Micro-Tech!"

  16

  Hammond struggled to maintain his composure. "How long has he worked for you?"

  "Since 1968." Traben observed Hammond coolly. "What's wrong, Commander? You seem upset."

  "Just surprised. Can I see him?"

  "Certainly, if you don't mind going to Israel."

  Hammond's confusion deepened. "He doesn't work here?"

  Traben shook his head. "I'm sure Rinehart told you that Kurtnauer went to Israel in the early fifties." Hammond nodded. "Well, at least he's told you one thing that's true. Kurtnauer is an Israeli citizen, highly respected, and at home in their scientific community. He's of great use to us there."

  "Doing what?"

  "Research."

  "What is he working on?"

  "Various projects. Classified."

  "Kurtnauer is a physicist. Why would he be working for an electronics company?"

  "Commander, I'm a physicist. And I'm Chairman of the Board. Sometimes we have to go the way the wind blows."

  "I would still like to meet him. Does he ever come to the States?"

  Traben hesitated. "Occasionally. In fact, Dr. Kurtnauer should be here in about three weeks for a meeting. It's probably just as well you wait till then. He would be difficult to reach right now. He's on a field trip for us. But if you're anxious, we can try to locate him for you."

  Hammond thought about it for a moment, then said, "I'll wait. Does he commute here often?"

  "Once or twice a year."

  The intercom buzzed and Traben's secretary informed him he had a meeting in five minutes. Hammond rose and said, "I guess that's it. Dir. Traben, thank you very much. I appreciate your time."

  Traben escorted him to the door. "You're welcome. And please feel free to give me a call if you need further information."

  Traben put out a perfunctory hand and Hammond held on to it longer than he should have, flashing Traben a thin smile that said, "I'm not as dumb as I look." Yet that was exactly how he felt: stupid.

  The door closed and Hammond turned in the waiting room. The secretary said, "Mr. Coogan will be right with you, sir."

  "Thanks." Hammond headed for the door, intending to do a little exploring on his own, but when he opened it, Coogan was already on his way up the hall.

  "So! How'd it go?" he asked.

  "Dandy."

  "Great. Come oh, I'll take you back to the lobby."

  Hammond followed him down another corridor and a flight of stairs, aware they were taking the long way around.

  Coogan led Hammond into a huge designing room, long and high and crowded with electronics and technicians in white lab coats. Hammond had no idea what he was looking at, but the miles of electrical wiring and exposed printed circuit boards looked real enough. There were computers everywhere, whirring or blinking away. If it was just a show, it was a damned good one, but Hammond couldn't allow himself to be that paranoid. He noted the international cast: Japanese, Chinese, Germanic types, even a few who were conversing in Russian.

  They left through another door.

  "Impressive," said Hammond. "What was it? An international prayer meeting?"

  Coogan laughed. "Top-secret Navy project. So you can report to your people that MTL is on the job."

  "I'm sure you are."

  "I hope you enjoyed your visit, Commander. Was Dr. Traben helpful?"

  "More than I expected."

  "I'll bet you had a slanted view of things before you came in here."

  Hammond shot him a glance. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "Commander," Coogan said in a hushed tone, "this fellow Rinehart has always been a pain in our ass. He's been trying to sic investigating committe
es on us for years. He was Traben's partner, but he got drunk with power. Thought he was a scientist himself. Couldn't stand the idea that Traben could do it and he couldn't."

  "How do you know so much about Traben's past?"

  Coogan smiled. "I'm head of security, Hammond."

  Hammond nodded. That was all fine, but how did Coogan know that Hammond had seen Rinehart?

  They parted company outside the front entrance. As Hammond walked back to his car, he felt overwhelmed by the whole performance.

  Traben had been masterful. He had undoubtedly thought Hammond dead until he actually appeared in the lobby, at MTL's doorstep, so to speak. Yet in the short time Coogan had kept him occupied, Traben had managed to assemble his act.

  Maybe Hammond would have a chance to see Kurtnauer in three weeks—if Traben couldn't invent an excuse. Was this a gigantic stall? If they were doing it to buy time, how much did they need and why?

  He couldn't help himself: his instincts said Rinehart had told him the truth. And if he had, MTL would never be able to produce Kurtnauer. But that could be checked through State Department records.

  And what about Coogan—the security chief—big and beefy with his black hair in that military crewcut? He had spoken of Rinehart without any prompting from Hammond. Did he know Rinehart was dead?

  Hammond stopped at the car door, pulled the file out of his briefcase and checked the number that had been on all the flags at BUPERS. He was already sure.

  9805CGN.

  CGN. Coogan.

  He stood back and stared at the olive drab building. Façades. All of them facades. He could tell tales to Gault from now till Christmas, but without cracking those façades and dredging up real evidence, he was, as Slater put it, up shit creek.

  Was it possible Rinehart had been lying? That Traben was as innocent as he portrayed himself? If so, why was Rinehart killed?

  Because once Hammond had found him, he became too dangerous. So they had murdered him, tried to kill Hammond, failed, and now had thrown him a bone to gnaw on.

  Until they could try again.

  He shivered. Before he got into the car, he made a thorough search for a bomb.

  Hammond drove straight to the Federal Building in Westwood. At the Navy Office of Information, he showed his credentials and commandeered a desk and a phone. He managed to reach Ensign Just-Ducky at home. She let out a great big sigh. "You know, Hammond," she said, "this is ridiculous. If you want a date, you don't have to fly all the way to Los Angeles to call me."