“Yes, sir.”
I started to hang up, then remembered Dr. Steichen. I asked if Steichen got anything from the coordinates I gave him.
“Hard to say.”
“Why?”
“He went home with everyone else.”
“Home! Give me his home number.”
Berkin gave me the number. I hung up and tried it. No one answered. I tried Smith’s number. No one home. I walked down the hall toward the kitchen, musing on the new information. Spieler had two ships, one specially outfitted, near our Gate. The Gate could reach out to anywhere in the galaxy. There was something to it.
“Dolores.”
“Hm-m-m,” she answered, stooped and staring into the refrigerator.
“What do you make of this?”
I told her about the successful test and its implications. I told her about Spieler’s ships. She seemed slightly less impressed than Dog.
“Ask me something hard.”
“That’s easy?”
“Sure. Spieler’s going to fly his little rocket ships through your Gate.”
“They aren’t rocket ships.”
“Whatever they are.”
I thought about it. It was a “four” that matched my “two and two.” But was it the right “four”?
“Why?” I asked.
“Now that’s hard.”
“Do you have any suggestions?”
“None. Maybe his fortune cookie said he should take a long trip.”
I thought about it—not the fortune cookie, the idea of Spieler going through the Gate. Somehow it rang false. If Spieler planned to move his spacecraft through our Gate, one of three alternatives had to materialize (no pan intended). He could get our permission. Mr. Merryweather, a businessman, might give permission for the right price. To Spieler, it would be like kneeling before his enemy, surrendering his sword.
He could do it by stealth, waiting until the Gate was operating, then darting through. I laughed. Darting, Spieler could only go where we focused the Gate. Fine, if that’s where he wanted to go. Otherwise, the potential was limited.
Or, he could use the direct approach. He could take the space station and use the Gate as he pleased. But why? What would he gain?
“I wish Smith were here,” I said. “Where is he?”
“I don’t know.”
Why would Spieler want to use the Gate? Even if he had free access to it and sent through drone ships, their cargo capacity was so much smaller than the Gate itself that he would gain nothing economically. Competition was out of the question. Perhaps he wanted to collect the ships currently searching the galaxy. But a few billion dollars in scrap metal would come nowhere near repaying the hundreds of billions invested. Nothing Spieler could do with the Gate, no matter how he gained access to it, would prevent his ultimate financial collapse.
“It doesn’t make any sense, Dolores.”
“What doesn’t?”
“Spieler. Those ships. What can he gain by using the Gate?”
“Maybe he’s not going to use it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe he’s going to destroy it.”
Destroy it! My Gate? “He wouldn’t!”
“He might. Do you remember how he looked at Smith that night?”
I remembered Spieler’s expression, twisted with hate. “What would he gain?”
Dolores thought a moment. Studying law has made her particularly adept at juggling hypothetical situations. She can take any side of a situation and see it from any viewpoint. I have heard her arguing with classmates on the phone, adding and subtracting facts from a hypothetical situation, changing viewpoints, working up a theory. I do the same thing with engineering problems but without people in the equation.
“Time,” she said.
“But too many people know those two ships are his. If he tried anything, they would nab him right away.”
“What if it looked like an accident?”
“Accident?”
“Sure. One of those little rocket ships, out there observing your test, accidently gets too close. Boom. Accident. By the way, how did Norton die?”
“Accident.”
“That accident gave Spieler some time. What type of accident was it?”
“I don’t know. It was here on Earth, not the station. Something to do with a car. His car or someone else’s. I don’t know.”
“It couldn’t have happened at a better time for Spieler, could it?”
“I’ve got to find Smith.”
I went into the front room and tried Smith’s number. No answer. I tried the Merryweather Building. No sign of him. I was about to call H. Winton Tuttle, Smith’s son-in-law, when an inspiration hit me.
I put the Greater Los Angeles Directory card in the slot. Nothing. I tried the Orange County card. I found the house on Balboa Island. I punched out the number.
The phone rang several times. I was about to hang up, when she answered, her pink housecoat slightly open at the throat. She looked at me blankly, a strand of blond hair disarrayed on her forehead.
“Yes?”
“Is Scarlyn Smith there by any chance?”
She looked startled, then composed herself. “Why would he be here?”
“This is important, Mrs. Norton. My name is Collins. I have to talk to him.”
“Just a minute.”
She left the screen. I could hear unintelligible shouting somewhere out of camera view. Eventually, Smith came to the screen.
“You just got me into a lot of trouble, buddy boy. What’s up?”
“I see why you didn’t want Duff to visit Sharon Norton.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Am I?”
“Duff can’t keep his lip buttoned.”
“Sure, Scarlyn.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Sure, I believe you.”
“Frankly, I don’t give a damn. Now what’s so important?”
That hurt. I realized how much I liked Smith.
“Sorry.”
“Forget it.”
“I think I’ve got a line on what Spieler’s planning.”
“Shoot.”
I shot. I told him about Dolores’ suggestions and my speculations. He nodded, a smile growing on his lips, occasionally interjecting “Yes,” or “It fits.” When I finished, he thought a moment.
“You’re getting better at this game, buddy boy. Here’s another fact to add to the heap. After I left you and the worry-wart this afternoon, I talked to Dr. Steichen. He finished analyzing the coordinates you gave him. Guess what he found.”
“The Crab Nebula.”
“Right. But he knew that as soon as you read off the figures. Bright guy. The coordinates weren’t for a drone ship at all. They were for your Gate computer.”
“But how—”
“Spieler got the specs from Master Toole in San Francisco. No one told them the information was classified.”
“What’s in the Crab Nebula?”
“Steichen agrees with Higgins. One pulsar, about a thousand years old. He even told me all about those wonderful Chinese astronomers who saw the supernova.”
“Why would Spieler want to go to—”
“Who knows? The man’s nuts.”
“Even a nut thinks he has a reason.”
“True,” he admitted. “Incidentally, how did Norton die?”
“Hit and run.”
The screen flickered. In the upper right-hand corner, a girl’s face appeared.
“I have an urgent call,” she said, “for a Dr. Robert Collins from the space station Merryweather Enterprize.”
“I’m Collins,” I said. “Can you put it on so both of us can see?”
“Yes, sir. But a conference call costs—”
“I’ll pay for it.”
Berkin’s face; drained of its healthy color, replaced the operator’s. He looked frightened.
“Sir, there are men on the station! Armed men! I can’t get Captai
n Wilkins! What am I supposed to do?”
“How many men?” asked Smith.
“Fifty, sixty, maybe more!”
“How many men do you have?” asked Smith.
“Smith,” I interrupted. “I know what you’re thinking and you can’t have a gun battle on a space station. First, our side doesn’t have any guns: Second, if a bullet hits in the wrong place, everybody in that section of the station goes. And almost every place is the wrong place.” I looked at Berkin. “How many men do you have?”
“Ten.”
“Ten! There’s usually a hundred up there at night!”
“Mr. Merryweather let everyone go,” said Berkin, his voice sounding as though he were suffering physical pain: “Skeleton crew. What am I going to do?”
“Do you have any ideas?” I asked Smith.
“Nope.”
I looked at Berkin. “Throw in the towel.”
“But, sir—”
“We’ll get as many men as we can to the company Gate, just—”
“Sir, they’re in the control—” Someone pushed Berkin off camera. A hand reached across the screen and broke the connection.
“Meet you at the company Gate,” said Smith and hung up.
XV
I was among the last to arrive at Corona del Mar. I had impatiently stared out the Mono window on the way down, cursing what seemed like the creeping. pace of the car. Actually, it takes about the same amount of time to get from my place to the Newport Beach area by Mono that it does by car, but in a car you feel like you, personally, are doing something about getting there. When I did arrive, I was glad I took the Mono. The parking area around the blockhouse looked like a traffic jam.
Smith’s red Ferrari, Duff’s gray Mercedes, assorted black and white police cars, plus twenty or thirty other cars, stood at odd angles around the lot, hurriedly parked and abandoned. I walked down the access road, finishing the apple in my quickly scrounged dinner. A low Ford shot past, stirring a cloud of dust. It stopped in the middle of the road. One of the day-shift Gatekeepers jumped out and sprinted to the blockhouse. I followed.
Inside, I wormed through a mass of solidly packed humanity, working my way toward the suitroom. A policeman barred my way.
“Sorry, buddy. Nobody past this point but the bigwigs.”
“My name’s Collins.”
“Mine’s Avery,” he responded, polite, friendly, still blocking my way.
“I’m a bigwig.”
“So am I,” he said, “to my wife.”
“Listen, Officer—”
“Sorry. Can’t do it. You reporters are always trying to get past us. Tell them to send someone older next time. Everyone in that room is over forty. One’s past seventy. Tell—”
“I’m not a reporter. Ask someone in there, please.”
Reluctantly, he retreated into a room off the hall. Almost immediately, Duff, red-faced, appeared in the doorway, yelling at me.
“Where the hell have you been?”
“I just got here.”
I followed Duff into the room. The policeman left, muttering about bigwigs getting younger every day. Captain Wilkins, Smith, the head Gatekeeper and two other men, plainclothes detectives, stood around a desk with an unrolled plan of the Merryweather Enterprize before them, held down by coffee cups.
“Where’s Mr. Merryweather,” I asked.
“Mutombo Mukulu,” answered Duff. “He’ll be here as soon as he can.”
I was introduced to the two detectives. They seemed relieved to have something to do other than stare at the space station chart.
“What’s everyone still doing here?” I asked.
The silence, as they say, was deafening. Duff bit his lip, holding back an outburst. Eventually, unable to hold it back longer, his arm shot out, pointing at Smith.
“It’s him!”
“What’s him?”
“It’s his fault!”
“Now, wait a minute, Duff,” protested Smith. “Let’s not start that crap again.”
Smith and Duff glared at each other, suppressing boiling tempers. I drew Captain Wilkins to one side, inquiring about the station’s current status.
Spieler, Captain Wilkins told me, had taken possession of the station personally, leading fifty men on board. Everyone from Mr. Merryweather to the President of the United States had been notified. The FBI was sending two men to the blockhouse. Government radar had picked up a new string of relay satellites between Earth and the Merryweather Enterprize. Apparently Spieler’s specially fitted ship was the last relay station. He had assembled his men and focused the special ship’s Gate on the Merryweather Enterprize, stepping through with them.
“Why aren’t we sending anyone up from here?”
“Blocked.”
“Blocked! How?”
“We don’t know, Doctor. Something on the second ship is deflecting our focal point.”
Our ground Gate was inoperative. I wondered about the Gate on the station. Jenson Gates work both ways. The Merryweather Enterprize had its own Gate more as a safety precaution than a necessity. The two gates were used in opposite directions to avoid complications and provide an emergency exit for the station when the ground Gate was focused elsewhere. I asked about the station Gate, thinking we could use it.
“We thought of that, too. The first leg, from the station to Zeta-one relay satellite is out. We don’t know where the station Gate is focused. Possibly on the second ship. That would give them access to either one.”
Duff and Smith were still wrangling, getting louder with each accusation and denial. The intensity of Duff’s accusations made me think he knew about Smith and Sharon Norton.
“Listen, Duff,” said Smith, his face visibly tired of arguing, “I’m going to say this once more. That’s all. Once. So get it straight. I am not responsible for Spieler’s actions. I am not his mother. This little plan, whatever it is, hatched in his brain before I even knew he existed. You’re making it sound like I thought it up.”
“You were hired to prevent it,” shouted Duff. “So prevent it!”
Smith, stung, started around the table toward Duff. I remembered what Smith had done to Spieler’s guards. Duff must have remembered something similar. He pointed at Smith, shouting to the two policemen.
“Stop him! Stop that man from hitting me!”
The two policemen moved toward Smith. I imagined them stretched out cold on the floor. They waited to see what Smith would do.
Smith, his face choleric, stomped toward Duff. Duff, frightened, backed to the wall. Smith’s bony index finger came up, pointing at Duff’s nose, an inch from it. He spoke quietly but firmly.
“Shut up.”
“But—”
“Shut up.”
“I—”
“If you do not shut up,” said Smith, accenting each word by poking his index finger ever closer to Duff’s nose, “I’m going to flatten your face.”
I laughed. Smith turned on me, pointing. “You, too!”
“Me?”
“Everybody seems to think this is somehow my fault.” He jerked his head at Duff. “Him, Horace, everyone!”
“I didn’t say—”
“Then don’t.” He turned toward the door. “I’m going out for some air.”
Smith left the room.
“What’s eating him?” I asked.
Duff snorted. “Incompetent old man.”
“Captain Wilkins,” I said, starting for the door. “Would you step out here with me.”
In the hall, I asked Wilkins to try to talk to Duff. We all had one job. It had nothing to do with fixing blame. We had to try to recover the Merryweather Enterprize. If the so-called leadership degenerated into chaos, what could we expect from anyone else. If necessary, he was to pull rank on Duff, pointing out who was captain of the station.
“I’ll try.”
“Good. I’ll talk to Smith.”
I pushed through the crowd. Several people asked me what was going on. I begged off. I f
ound Smith outside, trying to light a cigar and cursing. I walked up behind him.
“Sulking?”
He spun around and leveled the cigar at me like a pointer. “Listen, buddy boy, I’m not letting any of you bastards dump this thing on me!”
“Who said we were?”
“You heard Duff!”
“Do you really care what he thinks?”
“And Horace. I can’t get over it. You should have heard him on the phone. I’ve never seen him angry before.”
Mr. Merryweather. That was it. Up to now, Mr. Merryweather was the one person who believed in Smith, totally and unequivocally, the one person whose opinion mattered to him. Mr. Merryweather’s disapproval had shaken Smith. He lit the cigar. In the matchlight, I saw the deep wrinkles around his eyes. He looked momentarily old. An old man, out of his depth? The match went out.
“He’s got a right to be mad,” I said, trying to coax Smith from his pique. “It’s his money.”
Smith grunted.
“What did he say?”
“The same thing Duff said. I was hired to keep the damn cow in the barn and now it’s gone. I, personally, single-handed, was supposed to stop the resources of Spieler Interstellar!”
“And you didn’t.”
He puffed his cigar, thinking. “No.”
“Could you have prevented it?”
“Maybe.” He pulled the cigar out of his mouth and flicked off the ash. “Maybe not. Either way, they’re trying to stick me with the blame.”
“Then I guess you’ll have to do something about it. Unless you just plan to stand out here all night and lick your wounds.”
Smith was silent several seconds. Finally he looked at me, his expression asking whether I had an idea. “Do what?”
“I don’t know. I’m not the hero.”
Smith winced, but said nothing. Finally he flicked away the cigar.
“Hero, huh,” he said and smiled weakly.
“Do you have any ideas?”
“One.”
“What’s that?”
“Come on.”
Smith started away from the blockhouse toward his car. I fell in step with him.
“Where are we going?”
“Do you have a gun?”
“No, and I don’t want—”
“I’ve got an extra in the car.” Smith drove. I sat in the passenger seat, wondering why. Why was Smith leaving behind a brigade of police? Why was he leaving without telling anyone? Why was I doing the same thing? My misgivings multiplied when Smith reached in the glove compartment and came up with two .38 revolvers. He dropped one in my lap.
Stargate Page 17