Spalding said, “I phoned Dinoli at home, as soon as I saw you coming into the house. Security men will be here soon. I just have to keep you here and wait for them, and I can have my second-level slot.”
Kennedy glanced at Marge. “That was a splendid little speech you made on the recorder, Marge. All about how you were leaving me for Dave because Dave was true and good and virtuous and I was just an agency scoundrel. But I guess you see—”
“Shut up!” Spalding muttered.
“You’ve got the gun,” Kennedy said. “If you don’t like what I say, shoot me.”
“No,” Marge said. “Ted, he’s gone crazy. Don’t say things like that or he will shoot. He doesn’t care.”
Kennedy heard the clock ticking somewhere in the kitchen. He wondered how long it would take for the Security men to arrive. They would take him away, bury him somewhere in one of their interrogation centers, and the Ganymede invasion would go off as planned.
“Marge,” Spalding said. “My throat’s dry. Get me a drink of water from the kitchen.”
She nodded and went inside. Kennedy smiled. “I’m disappointed,” he said. “Not in you but in Marge. I thought she was a better judge of character than she turned out to be. She was really sold on you, I guess.”
“I quit the agency, Kennedy. I tried to free-lance. I found out what it’s like not to have money. I found out that having ethics isn’t enough. They beat you down; they don’t let you live. I couldn’t fight them, so I made up my mind to join them again.”
“Using me as the passkey,” Kennedy said. “You knew that Dinoli and Bullard were combing the country for me, and that you had bait you could dangle, in the form of Marge. So you bargained with them. Well, good for you. I hope you’re a success on second-level.”
Marge returned from the kitchen, bearing a tall glass of water filled to the very top. “Here you are, Dave. It’s ice-cold. Be careful you don’t spill any. Get him, Ted!”
She hurled the water in Spalding’s eyes and in the same motion threw herself against him, knocking his gun-hand to one side. Kennedy heard a roar and a boom and the thud of a slug burying itself in the wall, as he sprang toward the drenched, momentarily blinded Spalding.
He caught Spalding by the middle and spun him around. The gun waved wildly in the air. Kennedy grabbed for the gun-hand wrist, seized it and twisted, hoping to make him let go of the weapon. Instead, there was a second explosion.
Kennedy stepped back, startled by the vehemence of the blast. He felt no pain himself, and saw Marge’s pale, frightened face. Spalding was sagging to the floor, a jagged hole in his throat and a bewildered, surprised look on his face.
Then Kennedy felt Marge against him. She was quivering, and he held her tight, trying to keep himself from quivering also. He did not look at the dead man on the floor. He said quietly, “The gun went off while we were fighting. He shot himself. I think he’s dead, Marge.”
Through almost hysterical tears she said, “H-he put the ad in the paper. Then we came over here to wait for you. I tried to find some way of warning you, but there wasn’t any. And now—”
A shudder ran through her, and through him as well. “I guess he deserved it,” she said bleakly. “He would have turned you in. Ted, I’ve never seen a man get so rotten so fast. I was all wrong about him.”
“You thought you loved him, didn’t you?”
“Does it matter now?”
He tried to smile. “I guess not.”
“You won’t be bitter about it?”
Kennedy remembered fragments of a Ganny aphorism: Forgiveness is the heart and soul of existence. The past must not bind the people of the present, for they must heed the nearness of the future.
“We can start all over,” he said, and for a few moments they said nothing. Then Kennedy abruptly broke away from her.
“Spalding said he called Security. They’ll be here soon. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Where will you go?”
“Downtown, to the agency. I have to get together some evidence.”
“What kind of—”
“I’ll explain everything later. Do you have a car here?”
“It belonged to Dave. It’s outside.”
“Good. We have to get away from here, fast. And I have a job for you.”
“Anything.”
“I want you to get to see Harrison Flaherty—the chief American U.N. delegate.” As he spoke, he removed the gun from Spalding’s clenched hand, pocketed it, and restored his own to the shoulder holster. “I don’t care how you manage it, but get in there to see him. Find out where he lives and see him at home—I know it’s someplace in Manhattan. Tell him you’re my wife, and that I’m coming over later to surrender myself to him in the name of the U.N.”
“What—”
“Don’t argue about it. Just do it. And let’s get out of here now. I don’t want them to catch me before I can give myself up.”
They drove down into New York City, taking the Second Avenue Skyway, leaving Spalding sprawled in the living room for the Security men to find. Kennedy was wanted for one murder already; it made no difference if they tacked another to his dossier.
He drove off the Skyway at East 122nd Street and stopped in a store on the corner, where he checked the directomat and discovered that the U.N. man’s residence was across town, at 89th Street overlooking the Hudson. He jotted down the address and pocketed it, and hailed a cab for Marge. The time was just before nine.
“I expect to be there in less than an hour,” he told her. He slammed the cab door and it drove away. He started to walk.
The business district, at this hour of night, was utterly deserted. The wide streets were empty in a way Kennedy had never seen before. He turned up East 123rd to Lenox, and the office building that housed Steward and Dinoli was before him. He felt a nostalgic twinge. He looked around, and, seeing no watchman on duty, entered.
He passed through the open front door and was met immediately by an inner barrier. He had a key to it, but the key would work only if his thumbprint were registered in the building’s central access file, down in the basement computer banks. It was a long chance, but removing a print from the computer banks was a troublesome business, and perhaps they had neglected to take his out.
He inserted his key and touched his thumb to the plate. The lock clicked; he pushed against the door and it swung back into its niche. They had not bothered to remove his thumbprint from the file after all.
He moved silently through the ghostly building, taking the stairs rather than the elevator (there was a concealed camera in the elevator that photographed all after-hours riders). Eight, nine, ten, eleven. Good old Floor Eleven again, after all these months. Almost three months. Last time he’d been here was the day before his ill-fated Ganymede journey. And now …
He used his key and his thumb again and let himself into the office. The lights were off, the windows opaqued. The familiar steady hum of daytime agency activity was missing.
Quietly he made his way past the outer desk to his old cubicle. He clicked on the pocket flash he had found in the tool compartment of Spalding’s car, and quickly gathered together the materials he wanted:
Dinoli’s bulletin quoting the timetable for unfolding of the project.
The volume of characterizations of colonists he and Spalding had compiled.
Half a dozen damning inter-office memoranda. His own master chart for developing crises in the day-to-day life of the Ganymede colonists.
It made a heavy little bundle. He shuffled it all together, found a big envelope and shoved it in. He had enough material here to explode the Ganymede hoax from top to bottom. The whole thing was here in all its cynical completeness.
He started to retrace his steps. He stopped; a light was on in one of the second-level offices in the back. Hastily, he shifted his burden from his left hand to the right and started to draw his gun.
A voice from behind him said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing
, Kennedy?”
He whirled suddenly and in the dimness he saw Ernie Watsinski, lean and stoop-shouldered, staring at him. The second-level man had evidently been working late this evening. He dodged behind a desk suddenly, and Kennedy saw that the executive had a gun.
Quickly, Kennedy flattened himself against a door and ducked into one of the fourth-level cubicles. He said crisply, “Throw down your gun, Ernie. I don’t want to kill you. I’ve seen enough men dead on account of me.”
“Suppose you throw down your gun,” Watsinski replied. “I figured you’d come here eventually.”
Kennedy leaned out as far as he dared. Watsinski was barely visible; Kennedy saw the edge of one long leg protrude from the side of a desk, then hurriedly draw back. He heard the sound of a telephone dial being turned. He heard Watsinski’s voice: “Yes, give me Security. Hello? Ernest Watsinski speaking—of Steward and Dinoli. I’m in the S and D office now, and Ted Kennedy just attempted to break in. Eleventh floor. Yes, he’s armed. So am I. We’re in something of a stalemate right now. Get right over here.”
The receiver dropped back into the cradle. Kennedy began to sweat. From trap to trap! He eyed the distant door and wondered if he dared make a break for it. He had no idea how good a shot Watsinski was, but he knew quite definitely that if he stayed here much longer he would be boxed in by Security.
He moistened his lips. “Ernie?”
“I’m here. Just sit tight, Kennedy. Security’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Calmly, Kennedy squeezed a shot out. The roar split the silence; he heard the sound of the bullet crashing harmlessly into the desk behind which Watsinski was hiding. The second-level man did not return the fire; the advantage was with him only so long as his gun held ammunition. Kennedy fired two more shots in quick succession. The first hit the wall behind Watsinski; Kennedy was hoping for a lucky ricochet. The second smashed into the lighting fixture above them.
The room went dark. Kennedy sprang to his feet and headed for the door, clutching his package desperately. He heard the sound of shots behind him, wild desperate shots fired by the angry Watsinski.
He grinned to himself as he ran down the eleven flights of stairs.
19
He emerged breathless in front of the building and stopped for a moment. The drizzle that had been starting as he entered the building had developed into a full-sized autumn squall. Kennedy reflected that the Bureau of Weather Adjustment had always been better at making rain than in heading it off.
The car was parked a block away. He started to run, wrapping his package under his jacket to protect the documents from the rain. He looked back and saw a car pulling up outside the S and D building. Security men; he was getting away just in time. He accelerated his pace.
He reached the car dripping wet and half-dizzy from the running, unlocked it, climbed inside. He clicked on the ignition, waited a moment for the turbogenerator to deliver some energy, and drove off. Flaherty lived on Riverside Drive and 89th. He hoped there wasn’t much cross-town traffic.
There was no sign of the Security car behind him as he drove. At least, not for the first few minutes. But he saw the car come into view as he reached East 96th Street and turned right onto the Crosstown Skyway, and knew he was being followed.
The Skyway had a minimum speed of seventy. He jammed the accelerator down hard, pushed up above seventy-five. The needle on the speedometer approached the eight and the zero. The car back of him kept pace.
He swerved off the Skyway suddenly at the Amsterdam Avenue turn-off, doubled back to Columbus, then shot down to 88th Street through the side-streets. Rain and darkness combined to make driving rough. He drove westward along 88th, made a sharp right at West End, and cruised down 89th toward Riverside Drive, conscious that he was going the wrong way on a one-way street and hoping that nobody would decide to travel eastward on 89th at that moment.
No one did. He sprang from the car and headed for the apartment building on the corner. Apparently he had lost his pursuers, at least long enough to reach Flaherty.
A shingle on the side of the building said Harrison M. Flaherty, Ambassador Extraordinary to the United Nations from the United States of America. Kennedy did not bother to read the small print. As soon as he saw the neat block letters that said Harrison M. Flaherty, he knew he had come to the right place.
Just inside the door someone in the uniform of an attendant said, “Who is it you would like to see, please?”
Kennedy caught the man staring at him strangely and was conscious that he hardly looked impressive, soaked as he was by rain and sweat. His heart was pounding so hard he could hardly talk. He managed to say, “Am—Ambassador Flaherty.”
The doorman scowled imperiously at him. Kennedy felt like killing him. “Is the Ambassador expecting you?”
Kennedy nodded. “My wife’s up there now. At least, I think she is. Why don’t you phone upstairs and see?”
“I’ll do that.”
Kennedy stood to one side, keeping an eye on the front door, while the doorman picked up the house phone. “Your name, please?”
“Kennedy. Theodore Kennedy.”
It seemed that the doorman’s wide eyes went wider, but he said, “Will you tell Ambassador Flaherty that there’s a Mr. Theodore Kennedy down here to see him.” Pause. “What? It’s all right? Very well. I’ll send him up.”
The doorman pointed. “Elevator over there. Sixteenth floor.”
Kennedy smiled ironically. “Thanks for the help, friend.” He rang for the elevator and punched 16.
On the way up he leaned against the elevator wall, gasping for breath. Moisture streamed down his face. He pushed his hair out of his eyes.
The elevator stopped and Kennedy got out. He saw he was inside the foyer of one of those ultra-large apartments with private entrances. He was staring at three men in the drab uniform of the United Nations Security Police, and they were looking at him coldly, almost menacingly.
“Are you Kennedy?”
He nodded. He tried to see behind them; it seemed that some kind of party was in progress. Did Marge get here? he wondered.
The Security men advanced on him. He made no attempt to resist. One efficiently frisked him and relieved him of both guns, his own and Spalding’s, while a second held his arms. The third relieved him of the package he carried.
“Mr. Kennedy?” a deep, calm voice said.
Kennedy looked up. He saw a bulky, impressive, gray-maned figure of a man, standing at the entrance to the small foyer and regarding him with curiosity and a faint repugnance. Next to him Kennedy saw Marge, looking white-faced and frightened.
“I’m Kennedy,” he said. “My wife—”
“Your wife succeeded in forcing her way in here half an hour ago, and insisted on telling me a wild and bizarre story. I was entertaining guests at the time. I will feel most resentful if the story turns out to be false.”
“It’s true,” Kennedy said, trying hard not to sound like a crackpot. He took a deep breath and stared at the frowning face of the U.N. delegate. “I don’t ask you to believe me on faith, Mr. Flaherty. Lock me up. Put me in custody. Only”—he nodded at the package of documents held by one of the Security men—“read those papers. That’s all I ask. Just read them.”
“I’ll do that,” he said. He glanced at the Security men. “Meanwhile, suppose you three place him under guard. And watch him. He seems to be quite elusive.”
The General Assembly of the U.N. in plenary session was an impressive sight for Kennedy, especially after his night in jail. The flags of the hundred-member organization decked the hall, and above them all rose the U.N. flag—the World Flag.
Ganymede was the topic of the day, Juan Hermanos of Chile was presiding. Yesterday, it had been agreed that the Portuguese delegate would have first word at this session but after the opening gavel fell, U.S. Delegate Flaherty rose solemnly and asked for the floor.
He said, “It has been decided that Mr. Carvalho of Portugal is to speak first today.
But I wish to beg that the Chair see fit to ask Mr. Carvalho to yield place to the delegation of the United States.”
The parliamentary shift was accomplished; in full possession of the floor, Flaherty nodded to the assembled delegates and contined:
“The topic most frequently discussed before this organization in recent months is that of Ganymede, the moon of Jupiter, on which a colony of Earthborn men and women has been planted. This colony has been planted by the Extraterrestrial Development and Exploration Corporation, whose Mr. Bullard I see in the group before me. The work of the Corporation is well known. Applying private capital where public financing was impossible, the Corporation gave mankind the key to the stars. From among its ranks were chosen the few hundred who comprise the colony on Ganymede, the colony whose privations and dangers we all have followed with such keen interest since public announcement of its existence was made last spring.
“In short the Extraterrestrial Development and Exploration Corporation has, in the past fifty years, become virtually a supranational state, with lands of its own, police of its own, now a spacefleet of its own. This sort of private enterprise is considered commendable by current standards, since we all know the officers of the Corporation have long worked in the best interests of humanity.
“But last night a visitor came to me, a young man who has been active in the task of disseminating news of the Corporation’s recent programs. He brought some rather startling papers with him to show me. I have looked through them, and I can attest they are genuine. I believe it now becomes necessary to reevaluate our entire set of beliefs, not only in the matter of Ganymede but in the matter of Corporation activity in general. I would like to yield place, if it be so resolved by this body, to Mr. Theodore Kennedy, Executive Third-Level of the public relations firm of Steward and Dinoli of this city.”
The formality took a moment; Kennedy was given the floor. He rose in his place at Flaherty’s left, nudging the chair back clumsily. His throat felt dry. His hands, which rested on a considerable parcel, were trembling.
Invaders From Earth Page 14
