Thin Air

by George Simpson

  "But he died in 1973," said Cohen. Hammond was silent a moment, feeling sorry for the old Austrian whose scientific idealism had wreaked so much havoc.

  Hammond thanked Cohen for all his help, then hung up and mulled over the government's sudden revival of interest in Dr. Kurtnauer. Was it just to tie up loose ends?

  He shook his head suspiciously. You're a detective, Hammond, he told himself. J5o detect.

  By Monday, nothing had developed: no uncontrolled vanishing or disorientation, no residual effects at all. Hammond concluded that Traben and company had developed a cleaner process over the years.

  Hammond and Yablonski were discharged from the hospital on Tuesday morning and flown by helicopter back to the Pentagon. They were taken directly to Smitty's office. They were alone, just the three of them, no Admiral Gault. Hammond realized he hadn't seen or heard from Gault in over a week.

  "We have a task force out locating the rest of McCarthy's patients. Cohen and Slater will be handling the treatment from now on," said Smitty.

  Yablonski nodded gratefully.

  "We're questioning all the people at MTL. Except for a few inner-circle types, generally they didn't know what they were working on. And we don't want them to find out."

  "What are you going to do with them?" asked Hammond.

  Smitty fingered some papers. "Don't quite know yet. MTL still has "a lot of legitimate contracts to fulfill. We'd like to keep their organization intact...."

  "You would?" Hammond said. "That's a private company."

  Smitty smiled. "MTL is so far in the hole to the U.S." Government for misappropriated funds that they might as well enlist in the Navy."

  Hammond didn't find it funny. "And Bloch?" he asked.

  "I'm sure he'll be very repentant."

  Hammond's eyes narrowed. Smitty was playing a game. "Don't tell me you haven't nailed him yet."

  Smitty's eyes flicked to Yablonski. He said nothing.

  Hammond bounced out of his chair. "Come on, Smitty! He's staying at a well-known sanctuary in Herndon, and Father Gault is hearing his confession every three hours! Now what are you doing about all those stations Bloch set up around the world?"

  Smitty's gaze traveled to Yablonski again, and he sighed. "We're trying to set up a deal with him."

  "Deal?" barked Yablonski.

  "What the hell does that mean?" Hammond asked.

  "You don't think we're going to let it slip out of our hands, do you? For the time being, it's in everyone's best interests that none of this be made public, so I will of course expect you both to uphold our policy of no discussion on this matter—with anyone. For Nick, it's an order, Mr. Yablonski; as for you, I'll have to depend on your good judgment."

  There was dark silence for a moment, then Hammond spoke. "What sort of deal are you setting up with that sonofabitch?"

  "We might give him a little more time to perfect it, under our supervision."

  Yablonski was very still.

  "What part of it?" asked Hammond. "The teleportation business? The weapons guidance system? The little pedestal in space?"

  "All of it," Smitty said quietly.

  Hammond stared at him, then exploded: "That bastard's going free! And you're going to be partners with him!"

  Smitty shook his head and flashed a confident smile. "No, we're not."

  Hammond had heard him more convincing.

  "Look," Smitty continued, "I grant you that Mr. Bloch has proven to be a colossal villain, but some of the things he had in the works are eminently practical. Think of it this way: we've put a stop to his lust for power. That's all over and done with. He'll be working on this for only one reward: his freedom."

  "What about the murders!" Hammond shouted. "Fletcher, Rinehart—"

  "Can't prove he had anything to do with them. He'll maintain that was Traben's end."

  "You know it's not!"

  "Nick," Smitty began patiently, "this is more than one man's bid for supremacy. It directly affects the economic and military structure of the entire nation. We can't just padlock the doors and forget about it!"

  "But it doesn't work!" snarled Hammond. "That ship was not supposed to return to Philadelphia! After all these years, they still couldn't control the process! It's too unstable! If Kurtnauer were alive, he would tell you the same thing!" He leaned over Smitty's desk, seething with anger. "Do you want another generation of Fletchers and Olivelys?"

  Smitty was silent. His gaze shifted to Yablonski, who looked back at him sternly. "We're willing to take the risk," Smitty said casually.

  Hammond sank back into his chair, weighing those Words, reflecting on how strange it was that Bloch had been right in his suspicions of the government and what they would do with Thin Air if they ever gained control. In truth, they were not so far removed from Bloch himself. Given the potential of the process, should it fall under the control of any one person or nation?

  Hammond crossed looks with Yablonski and sensed something more primitive in his reaction: cynical acceptance of betrayal.

  Yablonski got up quietly and moved to the door. Hammond stared at Smitty, not quite knowing what was expected of him. Smitty saved him the trouble, accompanying him to the door and once more admonishing them both to be discreet.

  "Do you really think you're going to keep this quiet?" Hammond asked. "With all the people who've been involved?"

  "We hope so," said Smitty.

  On the way down the hall, Yablonski muttered to Hammond, "Too bad Dr. McCarthy is unavailable. They'd probably have made a deal for his services, too."

  They stopped into the NIS office and Ensign Just-Ducky informed them there was a staff car waiting at the Mail Entrance to take Yablonski back to Herndon so he could pick up his wife; they would be put on a plane at Dulles and flown back to Cape Cod.

  Hammond accompanied Yablonski down to the Mall Entrance, his bitterness growing. "They want to do exactly what Bloch would have done. Use this thing like a political baseball bat—whip everyone into line! Some country gives us trouble, the Secretary of State merely says, 'You want teleportation? Get in step!' For God's sake, Cas, even if they never perfect it, the potential is always there. They can drop hints"

  Yablonski grunted. "Let 'em. All I want is to get my wife away from them. Back where we belong."

  Yablonski slipped into the car and stuck out a hand, Hammond shook it.

  "Call me for fishing?"

  "You bet."

  "Soon?"

  Hammond nodded.

  "Want me to give Jan a message?"

  "No." Hammond paused. "I'll call her before you get there."

  Yablonski didn't know quite how to say goodbye. "Hammond," he finally managed, "thanks."

  He slumped back in the seat and the car drove off. Hammond stood alone outside the Pentagon. Tuesday. He checked his watch. 11:20. He wondered if he should go back to work. His eyes moved up to the sprawling complex and he wondered about his future, about everyone's future.

  A Navy limousine rolled up behind him and several men emerged. Hammond recognized civilian agents from the Headquarters Division of NIS, along with Admiral Gault. They were escorting retired Admiral Corso in for questioning. Corso still looked dapper, but he moved like the stuffing had been knocked out of him.

  Hammond saluted as they passed. Gault returned the gesture automatically, but Corso just looked at Hammond with a mixture of uncertainty and fear.

  Gault put Corso in the hands of another officer at the door, then came back to speak with Hammond. "I'd like you to get back on that Okinawa business. Lee Miller called. He's having trouble. Maybe you could fly out there tomorrow—in a few days."

  Gault looked at the ground and shuffled, wanting to escape. Finally, he shook his head and apologized, "I'm sorry, Nick. I knew what the Navy had in mind. That night after Bloch's party, Smitty took me into his confidence. Naval Intelligence figured out what Bloch was up to based on your information and the death of Rinehart. They got hold of his book, A Station in Space. It's all t
here, chapter and verse, a whole section on the possible applications of teleportation with orbiting satellites."

  Hammond looked up in surprise.

  "He wasn't such an impossible old kook after all," said Gault. "It was his idea, only he never knew they were using it."

  Hammond choked. "You mean you knew? And you just let me blunder around?"

  "Intelligence figured it out Saturday morning. We had the information just before that meeting with Corso. We were going to conduct our own raid. You simply beat us to it."

  "Good for me."

  "Look, Nick...what the hell am I apologizing for? I'm the fucking admiral around here."

  "Just can't get used to it, can you?"

  Gault glared at him. "I'll see you tomorrow."

  "No, sir. If it's all the same to you, I've got sixty days' leave coming and I'd like some of it now."

  Gault said nothing for a moment, then spoke softly, "You've got it. By the way, Jan Fletcher left MAGIC."

  Hammond stiffened.

  "This morning. Didn't see any need for protection any longer, so..."

  "Did she say where she was going?"

  "Mentioned that there was a hotel here in Washington more to her liking. Besides, she still had the key....Sorry she didn't work out, Nick."

  Gault laid a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, then realized Hammond was smiling. He couldn't understand why.

  He parked the Maverick on Thomas Jefferson Street and walked around to the park fronting the canal. A chilly breeze rustled the branches outside his second-story flat and stirred the curtains, her curtains, the ones she had put up more than two years ago. He heard the radio playing soft classical music, her favorite station. It was as if she had never been gone.

  He walked across the grass and his shoes crunched on dead leaves. He thought to himself that of all the mistakes one could make with a woman, shutting her out of any portion of one's life was the most serious, especially if she wanted in.

  So he tramped up the stairs, realizing that he was going to tell her the rest of the story, everything that had just happened, everything that Smitty wanted him to keep under his hat.

  Maybe it wouldn't stop there. Maybe he would go to the Washington Post and speak to a couple of hotshot reporters.

  There were always other careers.

  Keep it under your hat, my ass. He opened the door to his flat. He heard her humming in the kitchen.

  He walked right over to the open window and with a loud whoop tore the officer's cap from his head and sailed it out into the canal.

  He heard a glass crash to the floor behind him and her voice cursing in surprise, then he walked in and kissed her.