Baldwin was whistling through his fingers and waving. In violation of all city traffic rules a helicopter separated itself from the late afternoon throng, cut through a lane, and approached the window. It hovered just far enough away to keep from fouling its blades. The driver opened the door, a line snaked across and Kettle Belly caught it. With great speed he made it fast to the window’s polarizer knob, then grabbed the Markheim. “You first," he snapped. “Hurry!"
Gilead dropped to his knees and grasped the line; the driver immediately increased his tip speed and tilted his rotor; the line tautened. Gilead let it take his weight, then swarmed across it. The driver gave him a hand up while controlling his craft like a highschool horse with his other hand.
The 'copter bucked; Gilead turned and saw Baldwin coming across, a fat spider on a web. As he himself helped the big man in, the driver reached down and cut the line. The ship bucked again and slid away —
There were already men standing in the broken window. “Get lost, Steve!" Baldwin ordered. The driver gave his tip jets another notch and tilted the rotor still more; the 'copter swooped away. He eased it into the traffic stream and inquired, “Where to?"
“Set her for home — and tell the other boys to go home, too. No — you’ve got your hands full; I’ll tell them!" Baldwin crowded up into the other pilot’s seat, slipped on phones and settled a quiet-mike over his mouth. The driver adjusted his car to the traffic, set up a combination on his pilot, then settled back and opened a picture magazine.
Shortly Baldwin took off the phones and came back to the passenger compartment. “Takes a lot of 'copters to be sure you have one cruising by when you need it," he said conversationally. “Fortunately, I’ve got a lot of 'em. Oh, by the way, this is Steve Halliday. Steve, meet Joe-Joe, what is your last name?"
“Greene," answered Gilead.
“Howdy," said the driver and let his eyes go back to his magazine.
Gilead considered the situation. He was not sure that it had been improved. Kettle Belly, whatever he was, was more than a used 'copter dealer — and he knew about the films. This boy Steve looked like a harmless young extrovert but, then. Kettle Belly himself looked like a lunk. He considered trying to overpower both of them, remembered Kettle Belly’s virtuosity in rough-and-tumble fighting, and decided against it. Perhaps Kettle Belly really was on his side, completely and utterly. He heard rumors that the Department used more than one echelon of operatives and he had no way of being sure that he himself was at the top level.
“Kettle Belly," he went on, “could you set me down at the airport first? I’m in one hell of a hurry."
Baldwin looked him over. “Sure, if you say so. But I thought you would want to swap those duds? You’re as conspicuous as a preacher at a stag party. And how are you fixed for cash?"
With his fingers Gilead counted the change that had come with the suit. A man without cash had one arm in a sling. “How long would it take?"
“Ten minutes extra, maybe."
Gilead thought again about Kettle Belly’s fighting ability and decided that there was no way for a fish in water to get any wetter. “Okay." He settled back and relaxed completely.
Presently he turned again to Baldwin. “By the way, how did you manage to sneak in that dazzle bomb?"
Kettle Belly chuckled. “I’m a large man, Joe; there’s an awful lot of me to search." He laughed again. “You’d be amazed at where I had that hidden."
Gilead changed the subject. “How did you happen to be there in the first place?"
Baldwin sobered. “That’s a long and complicated story. Come back some day when you’re not in such a rush and I’ll tell you all about it."
“I’ll do that — soon."
“Good. Maybe I can sell you that used Curtiss at the same time."
The pilot alarm sounded; the driver put down his magazine and settled the craft on the roof of Baldwin’s establishment.
Baldwin was as good as his word. He took Gilead to his office, sent for clothes — which showed up with great speed — and handed Gilead a wad of bills suitable to stuff a pillow. “You can mail it back," he said.
“I’ll bring it back in person," promised Gilead.
“Good. Be careful out on the street. Some of our friends are sure to be around."
“I’ll be careful." He left, as casually as if he had called there on business, but feeling less sure of himself than usual. Baldwin himself remained a mystery and, in his business, Gilead could not afford mysteries.
There was a public phone booth in the lobby of Baldwin’s building. Gilead went in, scrambled, then coded a different relay station from the one he had attempted to use before. He gave his booth’s code and instructed the operator to scramble back. In a matter of minutes he was talking to his chief in New Washington.
“Joe! Where the hell have you been?"
“Later, boss — get this." In departmental oral code as an added precaution, he told his chief that the films were in post office box 1060, Chicago, and insisted that they be picked up by a major force at once.
His chief turned away from the view plate, then returned, “Okay, it’s done — Now what happened to you?"
“Later, boss, later. I think I’ve got some friends outside who are anxious to rassle with me. Keep me here and I may get a hole in my head."
“Okay — but head right back here. I want a fall report; I’ll wait here for you."
“Right." He switched off.
He left the booth lightheartedly, with the feeling of satisfaction that comes from a hard job successfully finished. He rather hoped that some of his “friends’ would show up; he felt like kicking somebody who needed kicking.
But they disappointed him. He boarded the transcontinental rocket without alarms and slept all the way to New Washington.
He reached the Federal Bureau of Security by one of many concealed routes and went to his boss’s office. After scan and voice check he was let in. Bonn looked up and scowled.
Gilead ignored the expression; Bonn usually scowled.
“Agent Joseph Briggs, three-four-oh-nine-seven-two, reporting back from assignment, sir," he said evenly.
Bonn switched a desk control to “recording" and another to “covert,"
“You are, eh? Why, thumb-fingered idiot! How do you dare to show your face around here?"
“Easy now, boss — what’s the trouble?"
Bonn famed incoherently for a time, then said, “Briggs, twelve star men covered that pickup — and the box was empty. Post office box ten-sixty, Chicago, indeed! Where are those films? Was it a coverup? Have you got them with you?"
Gilead-Briggs restrained his surprise. “No. I mailed them at the Grand Concourse post office to the address you just named." He added, “The machine may have kicked them out; I was forced to letter by hand the machine symbols."
Bonn looked suddenly hopeful. He touched another control and said, “Carruthersi On that Briggs matter: Check the rejection stations for that routing." He thought and then added, “Then try a rejection sequence on the assumption that the first symbol was acceptable to the machine but mistaken. Also for each of the other symbols; run diem simultaneously — crash priority for all agents and staff. After that try combinations of symbols taken two at a time, then three at a time, and so on." He switched off.
“The total of that series you just set up is every postal address in the continent," Briggs suggested mildly. “It can’t be done."
“It s got to be done! Man, have you any idea of the importance of those films you were guarding?"
“Yes. The director at Moon Base told me what I was carrying."
“You don t act as if you did. You’ve lost the most valuable thing this or any other government can possess — the absolute weapon. Yet you stand there blinking at me as if you had mislaid a pack of cigarettes."
“Weapon?" objected Briggs. “I wouldn’t call the nova effect that, unless you class suicide as a weapon. And I don’t concede that I’ve lost it. As an agent actin
g alone and charged primarily with keeping it out of die hands of others, I used the best means available in an emergency to protect it. That is well within the limits of my authority. I was spotted, by some means —"
“You shouldn’t have been spotted!"
“Granted. But I was. I was unsupported and my estimate of the situation did not include a probability of staying alive. Therefore I had to protect my charge by some means which did not depend on my staying alive."
“But you did stay alive — you’re here."
“Not my doing nor yours, I assure you. I should have been covered. It was your order, you will remember, that I act alone."
Bonn looked sullen. “That was necessary."
“So? In any case, I don’t see what all the shooting is about. Either the films show up, or they are lost and will be destroyed as unclaimed mail. So I go back to the Moon and get another set of prints."
Bonn chewed his lip. “You can’t do that."
“Why not?"
Bonn hesitated a long time. “There were just two sets. You had the originals, which were to be placed in a vault in the Archives — and the others were to be destroyed at once when the originals were known to be secure."
“Yes? What’s the hitch?"
“You don’t see the importance of the procedure. Every working paper, every file, every record was destroyed when these films were made. Every technician, every assistant, received hypno. The intention was not only to protect the results of the research but to wipe out the very fact that the research had taken place. There aren’t a dozen people in the system who even know of the existence of the nova effect."
Briggs had his own opinions on this point, based on recent experience, but he kept still about them. Bonn went on, “The Secretary has been after me steadily to let him know when the originals were secured. He has been quite insistent, quite critical. When you called in, I told him that the films were safe and that he would have them in a few minutes."
“Well?"
“Don’t you see, you fool — he gave the order at once to destroy the other copies."
Briggs whistled. “Jumped the gun, didn’t he?"
“That’s not the way he’ll figure it — mind you, the President was pressuring him. He’ll say that I jumped the gun."
“And so you did."
“No, you jumped the gun. You told me the films were in that box."
“Hardly. I said I had sent them there."
“No, you didn’t."
“Get out the tape and play it back."
“There is no tape — by the President’s own order no records are kept on this operation."
“So? Then why are you recording now?"
“Because," Bonn answered sharply, “some one is going to pay for this and it is not going to be me."
“Meaning," Briggs said slowly, “that it is going to be me."
“I didn’t say that. It might be the Secretary."
“If his head rolls, so will yours. No, both of you are figuring on using me. Before you plan on that, hadn’t you better hear my report? It might affect your plans. I’ve got news for you, boss."
Bonn drummed the desk. “Go ahead. It had better be good."
In a passionless monotone Briggs recited all events as recorded by sharp memory from receipt of the films on the Moon to the present moment. Bonn listened impatiently.
Finished, Briggs waited. Bonn got up and strode around the room. Finally he stopped and said. “Briggs, I never heard such a fantastic pack of lies in my life. A fat man who plays cards! A wallet that wasn’t your wallet — your clothes stolen! And Mrs. Keithley — Mrs. Keithley! Don’t you know that she is one of the strongest supporters of the Administration?"
Briggs said nothing. Bonn went on, “Now I’ll tell you what actually did happen. Up to the time you grounded at Pied-a-Terre your report is correct, but —"
“How do you know?"
“Because you were covered, naturally. You don’t think I would trust this to one man, do you?"
“Why didn’t you tell me? I could have hollered for help and saved all this."
Bonn brushed it aside. “You engaged a runner, dismissed him, went in that drugstore, came out and went to the post office. There was no fight in the concourse for the simple reason that no one was following you. At the post office you mailed three tubes, one of which may or may not have contained the films. You went from there to the New Age hotel, left it twenty minutes later and caught the transrocket for Cape Town. You —"
“Just a moment," objected Briggs. “How could I have done that and still be here now?"
“Eh?" For a moment Bonn seemed stumped. “That’s just a detail; you were positively identified. For that matter, it would have been a far, fair better thing for you if you had stayed on that rocket. In fact —" The bureau chief got a faraway look in his eyes. “— you’ll be better off for the time being if we assume officially that you did stay on that rocket. You are in a bad spot, Briggs, a very bad spot. You did not muff this assignment — you sold out!"
Briggs looked at him levelly. “You are preferring charges?"
“Not just now. That is why it is best to assume that you stayed on that rocket — until matters settle down, clarify."
Briggs did not need a graph to show him what solution would come out when “matters clarified." He took from a pocket a memo pad, scribbled on it briefly, and handed it to Bonn.
It read: “I resign my appointment effective immediately." He had added signature, thumbprint, date, and hour.
“So long, boss," he added. He turned slightly, as if to go.
Bonn yelled, “Stop! Briggs, you are under arrest." He reached toward his desk.
Briggs cuffed him in the windpipe, added one to the pit of Bonn’s stomach. He slowed down then and carefully made sure that Bonn would remain out for a satisfactory period. Examination of Bonn’s desk produced a knockout kit; he added a two-hour hypodermic, placing it inconspicuously beside a mole near the man’s backbone. He wiped the needle, restored everything to its proper place, removed the current record from the desk and wiped the tape of all mention of himself, including door check. He left the desk set to “covert" and “do not disturb" and left by another of the concealed routes to the Bureau.
He went to the rocket port, bought a ticket, unreserved, for the first ship to Chicago. There was twenty minutes to wait; he made a couple of minor purchases from clerks rather than from machines, letting his face be seen. When the Chicago ship was called he crowded forward with the rest.
At the inner gate, just short of the weighing-in platform, he became part of the crowd present to see passengers off, rather than a passenger himself. He waved at some one in the line leaving the weighing station beyond the gate, smiled, called out a good-by, and let the crowd carry him back from the gate as it closed. He peeled off from the crowd at the men’s washroom. When he came out there were several hasty but effective changes in his appearance.
More important, his manner was different.
A short, illicit transaction in a saloon near a hiring hall provided the work card he needed; fifty-five minutes later he was headed across country as Jack Gillespie, loader and helper-driver on a diesel freighter.
Could his addressing of the pneumo tube have been bad enough to cause the automatic postal machines to reject it? He let the picture of the label, as it had been when he had completed it, build in his mind until it was as sharp as the countryside flowing past him. No, his lettering of the symbols had been perfect and correct; the machines would accept it.
Could the machine have kicked out the tube for another cause, say a turned-up edge of the gummed label? Yes, but the written label was sufficient to enable a postal clerk to get it back in the groove. One such delay did not exceed ten minutes, even during the rush hour. Even with five such delays the tube would have reached Chicago more than one hour before he reported to Bonn by phone.
Suppose the gummed label had peeled off entirely; in such case the tube would have g
one to the same destination as the two coverup tubes.
In which case Mrs. Keithley would have gotten it, since she had been able to intercept or receive the other two.
Therefore the tube had reached the Chicago post office box.
Therefore Kettle Belly had read the message in the stacked cards, had given instructions to some one in Chicago, had done so while at the helicopter’s radio. After an event, “possible" and “true" are equivalent ideas, whereas “probable" becomes a measure of one’s ignorance. To call a conclusion “improbable" after the event was self-confusing amphigory.
Therefore Kettle Belly Baldwin had the films — a conclusion he had reached in Bonn’s office.
Two hundred miles from New Washington he worked up an argument with the top driver and got himself fired. From a local booth in the town where he dropped he scrambled through to Baldwin’s business office. “Tell him I’m a man who owes him money."
Shortly the big man’s face built up on the screen. “Hi, kid! How’s tricks?"
“I’m fired."
“I thought you would be."
“Worse than that — I’m wanted."
“Naturally."
“I’d like to talk with you,"
“Swell. Where are you?"
Gilead told him.
“You’re clean?"
“For a few hours, at least."
“Go to the local air port. Steve will pick you up."
Steve did so, nodded a greeting, jumped his craft into the air, set his pilot, and went back to his reading. When the ship settled down on course, Gilead noted it and asked, “Where are we going?"
“The boss’s ranch. Didn’t he tell you?"
“No." Gilead knew it was possible that he was being taken for a one-way ride. True, Baldwin had enabled him to escape an otherwise pragmatically certain death — it was certain that Mrs. Keithley had not intended to let him stay alive longer than suited her uses, else she would not have had the girl killed in his presence. Until he had arrived at Bonn’s office, he had assumed that Baldwin had saved him because he knew something that Baldwin most urgently wanted to know — whereas now it looked as if Baldwin had saved him for altruistic reasons.
Off The Main Sequence Page 68
