by George Wier
“Right,” Patrick said.
“Wait just a minute,” I said, flipping quickly through the pages under the clip. Pink copies, blue copies, carbons and all fluttered past. “Where the hell is your Health and Safety transport certification for this shipment?”
“What?” the trucker said, surprise etched on his unshaven features.
“If a state trooper pulls you over and inspects your load—which they will do—how are you going to explain how you are transporting very high-frequency nucleonic trajectory oscillatory equipment in the Bernoulli range without a Health and Safety cert sticker from the NRC? They’ll impound the entire load! Meanwhile some poor kid in Omaha doesn’t get his pineal transplant!”
“I–I”
I turned to Dr. Hague.
“See what I mean? This place has gone lax.”
I thrust the clipboard back into the trucker’s hand.
“Tell you what you do, Blackbeard. You sit in your truck and read a comic book or something until Goldie here—” I indicated the shipping clerk—“delivers to you one aforementioned cert! Meanwhile, the inspectors and I are going to talk to Susan and find out exactly why she isn't doing something about this bullshit!”
“Calm down, Bill,” Patrick said. “He’s just doing his job.”
“Right,” Dr. Hague agreed.
“Whatever,” I said. “Sit tight, you two.”
I turned toward the inside entrance to the shipping bay as if I knew where I was going and stalked off.
“Sorry, kid,” Patrick said. After a moment they followed me.
Behind us I overheard the trucker asking: “What the hell are those pricks doing here on the night shift?”
Some things, fortunately, never change.
CHAPTER SIX
A bluff is only so good for so long. I had no illusions of being able to carry it out successfully twice in a row. What we needed was something making us appear as if we belonged while we carried out our clandestined reconnaissance. And we found it right outside the shipping and receiving doors. We found a row of safety glasses on wooden hooks. I liberated three sets, passed two of them off to my co-conspirators, and found a basket of temporary badges and a sign-out log. Glasses and red badges in place, we wandered into the main plant area.
The floor was polished-smooth dark cement, the kind with embedded iron filings so as to drain away any latent static electrons that might be hopping around on clothing. The smallest collection of electrons can wreak havoc with microelectronic circuitry. The air was cool and slightly damp. No doubt the air chillers and humidifiers had cost the company a small fortune; but when you’re handling highly sensitive electronic circuits, you take measures. These people, or rather their planning engineers, had taken them all. The place smelled of new money and geek technology. I was clearly out of my depth.
“What are we doing here, Bill?” Dr. Hague asked.
“I want the personnel file on Dale Freeman. Also, I would like to know what they're shipping. That clipboard had nothing but part numbers on it with no actual descriptions. And I want to know what they're doing that they don't want anyone to know about. Dale Freeman—who was really not as old as he may have appeared—he fell into something he shouldn't have. And I have a hunch it has something to do with this place.”
“I had that figured as well,” Patrick said.
“Wait a minute,” Dr. Hague said. “Maybe that old guy was also the same kid who got fired.”
I stopped, turned to him. “What makes you think so?”
“When you said 'who was really not as old as he may have appeared', it sort of popped into my head.”
“What the hell are you two talking about?” Patrick asked.
“I don't know what we're talking about,” I said. “And that's what bothers me.”
We were in the center of a vast two-acre building surrounded by all kinds of automated equipment. I attributed to the skeleton-crew nature of the place the fact that we were there on the late shift and not when things were in full swing. There were workstations sprawled around us for what I estimated to be at least a hundred people.
After five minutes of looking around it was readily apparent that there were no secret chambers, no cordoned-off high-security areas and no radiation symbols warning off interlopers.
“There's nothing here,” Patrick said.
“Yeah,” Dr. Hague agreed.
“Right,” I said. “But I will only agree that we see nothing.”
“Whatever,” Patrick said. “Just so long as you don't start telling me these people are into satanic worship. You know, like last time.”
“Now what the hell is he talking about?” Dr. Hague asked me.
“You don't want to know,” I said, and he accepted that as an explanation of sorts. I was sure, however, that his imagination was busily running off in all kinds of directions.
“My real question is,” Patrick began, “how do we get out of here? I have no desire to test their security twice.”
“I don't know that either,” I replied. “Yet. But in the meantime, let's go find the corporate administration section. I want to see the file on Dale Freeman.”
“Fine,” Patrick agreed, though grudgingly.
*****
We had originally come in the back entrance to the plant through the shipping and receiving area. The administration offices were on the front side of the complex. The two-story high ceiling above us gave way to the offices through a set of automatic sliding doors; the kind you find in any retail supermarket. The air was five degrees cooler and the humidity vanished. We came to an intersection past which corporate country began, with several dozen cubicled workstations, each complete with desk, computer and accessories, and family photos tacked to carpeted, temporary walls. A row of filing cabinets along the front of the building attracted my feet their direction.
“Ah,” Patrick said.
“Right,” I agreed. “Paper. Lots of paper.”
“It'll be under lock and key,” Dr. Hague stated. “You can't have employees able to walk right up and have a look in their own personnel file.”
“Maybe,” I said. “In a perfect world you would.”
Corporate America is a nine-to-five deal, by tradition. The office area was totally deserted and the overhead lights were off. Not that any extra lighting was needed. There was enough ambient light given off by the corridors and individual workstations that there was no real darkness there.
“We're being watched,” Patrick said.
We stopped and Patrick pointed to a security camera in the far corner. The security camera stopped it's slow tracking movement a moment after we stopped.
“Yeah,” I said. “We'll get a visit in a minute. If we have to, let's play the argument scene again.”
We stood and waited. Sure enough the visit came quickly.
“Help you fellows?” the security guard asked. The guy was about thirty, slim, and had a five o'clock shadow on his face. He had a white rayon shirt with black pocket flaps and epaulets, and a security belt complete with night stick and punch clock, the kind in common use for making rounds to stationary positions. Also, he appeared bored beyond belief. Just the way I like a security guard.
“Yeah,” I said. “There's no day staff here and I need to get in to the personnel files.”
“Hmph,” the guard grunted. “Sure. No problem. Give me a sec.”
“Thanks,” Patrick said when the guy turned and walked off.
“That was too easy for comfort,” Dr. Hague whispered.
I nodded in agreement.
We heard a jangle of keys and then a door opening. There was the slap and rattle of a metal cabinet door opening and then closing. The guard was back inside of thirty seconds.
“What's your name?” I asked the guard as he returned.
“Ralph Yankewicz,” the fellow said, and yawned. He handed me the key.
“Well, thanks Ralph,” I said.
“What file are you looking for. Maybe I can help
you find it.”
“No,” Patrick said. “That's okay. Company policy and all that. I'll bring the key back to you in a few minutes.”
Ralph nodded and moved on. “Just chunk it inside the security cage. I'll find it,” he said, and it sounded like he continued to mumble on, but I couldn't catch a word of it.
“Well,” Patrick said. “If I were a personnel file for somebody who got canned, where would you put me?”
Dr. Hague scanned the long file of cabinets that lined the front inside of the plant.
“I think I know,” he said.
Patrick and I followed Dr. Hague. Near the entrance from which the security guard came the cubicles were much bigger. Also, along the inside wall was a row of what should be none other than administrative offices. A peek that way revealed overly large desks with swanky woodcuts on a wall.
“Ah,” Patrick murmured. “I'll bet you're right, Dr. Hague.”
Just that moment Ralph, the security guard, returned.
“Say fellahs, I just got a radio call. I didn't know whether or not you admin types wanted to be here when the Feds come calling.”
“Why?” Patrick asked. “Are they headed this way?”
“Yeah. I just got word. They'll be here in twenty minutes. I'm supposed to open the front doors wide for them and let them see and do anything they want.”
“Uh oh,” Dr. Hague said.
“Right,” I agreed. “Tell you what,” I told Ralph, “tell the gate guard out front to do something. Cut the power to the gate or something. Buy us a little time.”
“What are they looking for?” the guard asked.
“Well,” I cast my voice down to a whisper and stepped forward, “confidentially, the company doesn't want them to find the file I'm looking for. It's that Freeman file. Dale Freeman.”
“Oh shit,” the guard said.
“Exactly,” Dr. Hague said. “And while we're at it, we're supposed to pull the file of that kid we fired about a month back.” Dr. Hague scratched his head and looked away, frowning. “Damn, I forgot his name. I knew I should have written it down.”
“Oh. You must mean Logan. Pete Logan.”
Dr. Hague snapped his fingers. “That's the one.”
“Okay,” Ralph said, “hold on. Lemme make this call.”
Ralph pulled his walkie talkie from his belt, keyed the mic and spoke: “Say, Bobby. You remember a couple of months back when we had the problem with the electrical system on the gate?”
A moment of static ensued, then a bored radio voice said: “Nope. Don't recall that one.”
“Well, you must have been out that night. Listen, it'd be really bad if we had a problem with the gate or something when those NRC boys get here.”
“Yeah?” the voice said, a little interest dawning there.
“Yeah. I'd be plain rough if someone had trouble getting through when they really needed to.”
“Roger that.” Bobby replied, a chuckle in his voice. “Tell you what, it's time to run a full diagnostic on the gate. The problem is, I'll have to cut the power for, say, twenty minutes. Then I'll have to reboot the computers. Geez, that would mean the gates would be down for, say, half an hour?”
“Yeah, but we can't take any chances with a bad gate, now can we?”
“That's right. In fact, we're overdue for a calibration of the sensors as well. I'll have to shut down the whole system to do this right.”
“Make sure you do it all by the book. In fact, start your log entry as of right now. Wait until after you start before calling it in to Midland.” The guard looked up at me and grinned.
“10-4,” Bobby said.
Ralph returned his walkie-talkie to his belt. “And voila.”
“Ralph,” Patrick said. “You're the best.”
“This is the most fun I ever had in this place,” he said. “In fact, I think my radio is due for a battery change. I guess I'll be radio silent for awhile.” He reached down and switched off the radio.
“You're an okay guy, Ralph,” I said. “Now to find those files and get the hell out of here.”
“Shoot, I wish I could help, but then I'd have to lie when I disavowed all knowledge.”
“I like how you think, Ralph,” Dr. Hague said.
“Okay fellahs,” I'm taking off. “Glad I don't know your names.”
“We've already forgotten yours,” I said.
CHAPTER SEVEN
With all three of us looking for them, it was Bertram Hague who found the files for Dale Freeman and Peter Logan, but there was no time to look at them. We had a return visit from Ralph Yankewicz.
“Fellahs,” he said, “you should take a look out the window over there.”
We walked the twenty yards to the front windows and cracked the blinds. Red and blue lights flashed in the distance: the front gate.
“Is that the Federales?” I asked.
“Yep,” he said. “And we can't hold them any longer.”
“Thanks, Ralph,” I said. “If you're going out there to greet them, I think I'll go along.”
“Wow! Thanks!” he said.
“Don't mention it. I don't want you to lose your job.” I turned to Dr. Hague and Patrick. “You two go out the back way, the way we came in.” I handed the files to Patrick, who was closest to me. “Put these in my car. I believe you know where I'm parked.”
Patrick chuckled. “Sure thing,” he said.
I shook hands with Dr. Hague. “You take care of yourself, Bill,” he said.
“It's what I do best,” I replied.
*****
I rode to the front gate with Ralph Yankewicz in his security vehicle, which was little more than a glorified golf cart.
“Do you really even work for this company?” he asked me when we were under way.
“Not even close,” I admitted. “How did you know?”
“Because,” he said, “you're not a complete jerk.
The front gate was a quarter of a mile away and the ride seemed to take a lifetime. All the while the strobing lights of the newcomers grew.
I swallowed my apprehension at the coming encounter. I had wanted to see these characters for myself ever since I was told they had shut down Sonny's bar.
We pulled off the roadway within yards of the fence and I slid out of my seat. There was a cluster of men on the other side of the gate, along with an apologetic-looking security guard. I pegged him for Bobby. And I had no doubt that at the moment he was dying for a cigarette and more peace and quiet.
“Hey, Bobby,” Ralph said. “What's wrong with the gate?”
“You!” one of the men said and jabbed a finger directly at me.
“Me?” I asked.
“Yeah. If you don't get this gate open in thirty seconds, I'm knocking it flat with my truck.” He hooked a thumb behind him.
“We'll get it open, right Bobby?”
“Yes sir,” Bobby replied.
“Good,” I said. “No excuses, just get it open.”
Bobby turned and trotted off.
“While he's doing that,” I told the man who was in apparent authority, “I'd like to know your name, for the record.”
“I don't have to give you dang-diddley-dang-squat,” he said. “We're with the Nuclear Regulatory Commission. And we're coming in.”
“Of course you're coming in,” I said. “There was never any doubt about that. But tell me, if you will, or if any member of your crew can—what is the decay rate of an atom of cesium?”
“What?!” the fellow nearly blew up.
“You heard me,” I said. “The decay rate of an atom of cesium. Someone please tell me.”
The man looked uncertain for a moment. He looked behind him and heads shook in the negative.
“That's what I thought,” I said. “You can come in, but you're no more from the NRC than I'm from Planet Neptune.”
Beside me I thought that Ralph wasn't going to be able to contain his laughter. His body shook.
At that moment the gate began to rol
l open on its tracks.
The leader of the crew gave me a hard look and then abruptly turned, the signal for all of them to get in their vehicles and get on with their jobs, whatever that was supposed to be.
Ralph and I stood there as the trucks came forward. Ralph stepped to the roadway and the first truck stopped. Ralph handed the driver his access card and a set of keys.
“You might need the card to get in the front door,” he said. “And the keys open up everything.”
*****
When they were gone Ralph broke into laughter.
“That,” he said, “was the most awesome thing I have ever seen.”
“It didn't feel so awesome during,” I replied. “Say, can you get me the hell out of here? My car is parked up the road.”
“No problem,” he said, still laughing. “Hop in. After that it's the least I can do.”
We trundled through the gate in Ralph's golf cart and were hailed by Bobby.
“What was that all about?” he asked.
“Just a bunch of idiots carrying out someone's equally idiotic orders,” I said. “You did extremely well, Bobby. Ralph his going to take me for a little ride while the marauders go about their business.”
“Glad to be of service,” Bobby said.
Ralph started up the golf cart and we were away.
It was an eerie trip through the woods at night in Ralph's security cart, and I felt better once we were on the open roadway.
“Say,” Ralph said, “just what is the decay rate of an atom of cesium?”
“Oh. That. Well, anyone knowledgeable about nuclear physics and radiation should know some of the basics of science and physics. The truth is, I don't know the exact decay rate, but I do know it's how we measure time. The element Cesium is the component part of an atomic clock. Without it, you've got nothing but spare parts.”
And at the fit of howling laughter that followed, I thought Ralph was going to lose control of the golf cart and injure us both.
*****
When I got back to my car, the two folders were on the passenger side floorboard. There was a brief note from Dr. Hague telling me he got a ride back to town with Deputy Kinsey. Dr. Hague and Patrick must have run the entire way back.
