Cautiously, he stepped into the vault.
19
The walls were hare and painted with a dull black finish. Hammond stood over the pedestal for a full minute, leaning first one way then the other, scrutinizing it. The pedestal stood three feet high. It was circular and about fifteen inches in diameter. It resembled a surround-speaker system and appeared to be an anodized aluminum sheath with vents. Hammond squatted and peered through the blades. The sheath was packed inside with conduits and copper coils wrapped tightly around a long piece of white metal.
He sat down on the floor and in the feeble light peered upward through the vent. There were two coils, one behind the other, connected at the top by a thick metal core that curved in an arc between them. The core was bisected by a rod that ran down between the coils and permitted them to spin on an axis. Hammond guessed the apparatus was some sort of powerful electromagnet that could whirl on a fulcrum and radiate its power outwards, probably to the limits of the vault.
He knew immediately what it was: a refinement of Emil Kurtnauer's field generator, the electromagnetic couplers that Rinehart had described. The power generator was probably located lower in the pedestal. He tried to get a look at it but the blades were slanted down and outward, making it impossible. He wondered if there were a way to open the apparatus. He duck-walked around it and found that it was anchored to the floor by three bolts—and he didn't have a wrench.
No matter. He knew what was there. The specifics weren't important. It was what the machine did...
It made people invisible.
The realization caught up with him in a surge of ugly black fright. He wanted out. What if someone was waiting for him in the bedroom, invisible...? What if they closed the vault door on him, turned the thing on and made him disappear...?
He backed toward the entrance, dreading the telltale click that would indicate the generator was starting....
He stepped out safely and only then let out his breath. He stood with his back to the open shower stall and looked around the empty bathroom. There wasn't a sound. Nothing moved. He couldn't even hear the party sounds three floors below. He tried to convince himself not to be frightened. Then he gazed back into the vault at the pedestal standing on that black floor like a futuristic barstool.
Somewhere in this room there had to be controls. Not in the vault: he was certain those walls were solid. He began to search the bathroom, pulling out drawers, rummaging in the linen closet....
He opened the medicine chest and found only the usual array of pills and grooming aids. He slid the door closed and was about to move on when he noticed the hinges....
Peculiar. The doors were sliding mirrors, but there were hinges on either side of the chest. He felt under the extended lip and tugged. One side of the chest swung away from the wall, exposing a panel of instruments. It seemed to be a computer, with a coded programming keyboard arid a black glass panel that Hammond took to be a light display for digital readout. Numerical touchplates were grouped in the center with keys to one side marked VERB and NOUN. Other keys were marked CLR, PRO, KEY REL, ENTR, and RSET.
Hammond tried to think where he had seen something like this before, something almost exactly the same: NASA. This was a goddamned DSKY! A Display Keyboard like the ones used aboard the Apollo spacecraft.
VERBs and NOUNs could be programmed to key numbers and fed into the board, instituting a predetermined activity. But what activity? Why something so sophisticated if all that was required was to turn on a machine that would generate a force field? Unless it did something else—
He thought he heard a sound.
He froze and waited, his hand on the open panel. Nothing more. Imagination. But he'd seen enough. He closed the panel until it made a soft click. Then he turned and shoved the shower stall back into place. He went to the wall switches and flipped the fourth one to off.
He took a deep breath and opened the door to the bedroom, whistling softly.
Coogan was silhouetted in the bedroom doorway.
Hammond snapped his fingers and said, "Oops, forgot something." He ducked back into the bathroom and flushed the toilet. He snatched his brandy glass from the counter land strolled out, weaving a little drunkenly. He grinned at Coogan and slurred, "Wouldn't want to leave any telltale signs, would I?"
Coogan stayed in the doorway and growled, "You had to come all the way up to the third floor to do that?"
"No, gorgeous. I was looking for you."
"You've found me."
"Want to step out of the way?"
Coogan just glared at him.
"Okay," said Hammond. "All gloves off. You're not going to like it, bub, but I've been doing some shitting other, than on the master's pot." He watched Coogan blink. "That sweet little deal you've had going over at BUPERS for the last twenty years, that's all gone, to quote a friend of ours named Olively."
Coogan flinched.
"Not only that, but if you ever have another tour of duty with the Navy, I'll see that you're assigned to something constructive: like the alligator census in Georgia. The secret is to count their feet and divide by four."
Coogan shifted and Hammond scooted through the opening. In the hallway, he twirled his brandy glass and rocked back on his feet, returning Coogan's scowl.
"And if you think I don't know everything about Project Thin Air, you're right. The rest of it you're going to tell me in front of a Naval Board of Inquiry. You and Traben and even Mr. Big-Shot Bloch!"
Coogan stepped out in the hall, his threatening bulk poised on the balls of his feet. Hammond tensed, convinced the man was about to charge. Then Coogan got himself under control and managed a smile that came off as more of a grimace.
"You're going to look damned foolish without any proof," he said.
"Just give me time."
Coogan laughed wickedly. "I'm not going to give you anything, Commander, especially time!"
They glared at each other. Hammond carefully put his brandy glass down on a side table and confronted Coogan, balling his fists. Coogan laughed throatily.
"Relax," he said. "We're not going to do anything to embarrass the host now, are we?"
"Certainly not," Hammond muttered.
"Not while you're still inside this house," Coogan finished, his eyes practically gleaming with anticipation.
Hammond shook his head sadly. "Coogan," he said, "it's going to make me so unhappy to put you behind bars. You deserve something better, like a cyanide suppository."
Coogan just continued to smile—stiffly, as if he knew he had the upper hand. Hammond waved him away in disgust, picked up his glass, and walked back to the landing, not bothering with the drunk act anymore. He tried to whistle but discovered that his lips were quivering too much. He made the landing and scurried downstairs.
Coogan was right. He hadn't enough proof—or time.
What had he really stumbled on in that bathroom vault? An invisibility generator? Or something even more insidious? And what did any of it have to do with F.P. Bloch's oil dealings?
He paused on the landing atop the broad foyer staircase. People below were laughing and enjoying themselves. Hammond wondered if the spider's web was closing around them, too. An aura of power seemed to ripple through the house and touch everyone.
Did it?
He found Jan Fletcher sitting on a small couch in the ballroom, her legs tucked under her bottom, sipping brandy and listening to two ancient congressmen trying to impress her with their Washington gossip. She glanced up at Hammond's approach and visibly brightened. The two old bores looked up at Hammond, then back at her, then fell silent.
Hammond held out a hand. She accepted it and he pulled her up. She came into his arms for a lingering embrace, then wheeled back to hook her arm through his. She said nothing as he led her on a slow saunter around the room.
"More brandy?" he asked.
"No thanks." She leaned over and took a quick nibble from his ear, whispering, "More you."
"Forward little l
ass, aren't you?"
"Forward thinking. Forward doing."
"Right here? On the ballroom floor?"
She wrinkled her nose. "Too crowded. How about your apartment?"
Before he could reply, Admiral Gault loomed in front of them. He caught Hammond's eye and waved.
"Enjoying the party?" asked Gault.
"Apart from a little run-in with Joe Coogan, yes," said Hammond. Jan suddenly looked concerned.
"What kind of run-in?" asked Gault.
"I found something in a bathroom...that you wouldn't normally find in a bathroom." Gault arched an eyebrow and opened his mouth to demand an explanation. Hammond winked at him. "We can discuss it tomorrow. It'll suffice to say that our host is in this up to his teeth."
Gault scowled openly and rumbled something to himself. "I think you better get out of here," he said. "Back to MAGIC."
"Okay." Hammond nodded. "Have to pick up my car first." He nodded to Gault and escorted Jan away.
Forty minutes later, a cab swung down Thomas Jefferson Street and stopped at the canal. Hammond helped Jan out and paid the driver. The cab turned around and drove off while Hammond walked to his car. He stopped, cursed, and turned back to Jan. "I better call MAGIC," he said, "and tell them we're coming, or we're liable to get blown right off the porch."
She stood on the tow path, watching him with her wrap held tightly about her shoulders. Hammond looked into her eyes. Her lips parted. A cold wind was blowing along the canal, scattering leaves and rustling branches. She shivered. He offered his arm and gratefully she slipped a hand through it. He wanted to hurry to the apartment, make his call, get going to safety. She wanted to take a casual stroll down the tow path.
What could he do? He had to oblige and, when he thought about it, it was nice having her here again. She felt warm and soft next to him and she leaned her head on his shoulder peacefully.
They were across from the entrance to his building when she stopped and turned into him. Her hand went to the back of his neck and gently began to stroke. Hammond shivered, and not from the chilly night air. Her lips met his and he felt himself sinking into them. Her other hand climbed his chest and caressed his cheek. He was surprised and giddy from excitement.
"I think we're putting on a show out here."
"Nobody watches," she said. "We used to do this, remember?"
He remembered. He pulled her with him, heading for his front door. The lamp along the tow-path threw a weak light as he fished for his keys. Jan moved to one side while he fumbled at the lock. The key turned and he swung the door open, standing aside to let her pass. It was dark inside and she hesitated, testing for the staircase with her foot.
Dark. What happened to the hall light? It struck him, almost too late—
Jan was already on the first step when Hammond grabbed her and pulled her back roughly. He slammed the door then lunged sideways off the stoop, ignoring Jan's surprise.
Something chunked into the door twice.
Hammond stared at twin holes. Jagged, splintered wood canted up at a crazy angle. He heard the thump of heavy footsteps charging down the stairs. He looked up. Could they chance a run for it? Risk a bullet in the back? Make the canal? Jan's face was chalk-white. She was fumbling with a spiked heel—
Hammond shoved her into a crouch in the dark, then flattened himself next to the door. It flew open. A burly figure in a black trenchcoat stepped out, gun first, and Hammond struck, tackling low and sending him sprawling.
They scrambled for position on the grass. The gun came up and Hammond lashed out at the exposed wrist. The gun flew away and Hammond caught a glimpse of the silencer. A heavy fist came down hard on his back.
Jan screamed. Hammond went down. The attacker jumped up and aimed a vicious kick at his head. Hammond grabbed the foot and twisted. The man screamed in pain and Hammond saw his face. Crewcut red hair, a huge drinker's nose with nostrils flared.
McCarthy landed hard. Hammond swung his leg without getting up and planted a shoe in McCarthy's ribs. Then he whirled and dove for the gun.
The barrel was still hot and McCarthy winced when Hammond jammed it under his chin. "Do something stupid," Hammond snarled. "Give me an excuse!"
McCarthy tried to edge away, but Hammond kept the gun at his throat. McCarthy was gasping, his face flushed redder than usual. His hands were thrown back clutching grass.
Hammond glanced around quickly. Jan was crouched in the bushes, one hand over her mouth, eyes wide in horror and fear.
"It's okay now," he said.
She stared from him to the assailant. "Wh-who is he?" she stammered.
"Mrs. Fletcher, meet Dr. Lester J. McCarthy."
Her breath caught. She made an inarticulate sound and sank to her knees. Hammond heard quavering sobs and they made him angrier. He prodded McCarthy.
"Up, you sonofabitch!" he said.
McCarthy carefully got to his feet, breathing hard, guarding against another blow from Hammond. Hammond grabbed his arm and jerked him off-balance, thrusting the gun into his ear.
"Any more surprises in my apartment?" he said.
McCarthy didn't reply. Hammond flipped him around and made him raise his hands and clasp them behind his head; then he searched the trenchcoat. McCarthy had no other weapons.
Hammond faced him. For some reason known only to him, the doctor was smiling. "I'm glad you're so happy," said Hammond. "Now you can explain to me in very plain English just how you got out of that cell in Boston."
McCarthy gave him a contemptuous look. The wrinkling movement must have affected something in his huge nose. He sneezed twice, pulling one hand down to cover it, then very obligingly putting his hand back behind his head.
A light went on several houses down and somebody appeared at the window. They were attracting attention. Hammond motioned McCarthy toward the apartment entrance. He wiggled a hand at Jan and she stumbled to join them, keeping well back. .
"Hold it," said Hammond as soon as McCarthy crossed the threshold. "What'd you do with the lights?"
"Switch," said McCarthy. He sat down on the steps and rubbed the back of what Hammond hoped was a very sore neck. Hammond's eyes were away only a few seconds as he fumbled for the light switch. The moment it went on, Jan shrieked. Hammond whipped around.
McCarthy's hand had descended to the base of his neck, where he held it tightly in place, pressing against the flesh—while his entire body faded from sight.
Hammond stood rooted in place while the figure vanished from the steps. Within agonizing seconds, Hammond was alone again with Jan, whose screams echoed up the stairwell.
20
For the longest time, Hammond couldn't move. He heard Jan fall away from him and sag against the wall, her screams diminished to terrified weeping.
McCarthy had disappeared like a will-o'-the-wisp. There was no sign of him, not at the top of the stairs or out on the grass. He was gone, as if he had never been there, but Hammond had his gun, a murderous-looking .45 with a silencer. It dangled from his hand as he stumbled back to Jan and pulled her close. She shook in his arms.
He led her over the threshold and listened at the door of the first-floor apartment. No sound, no lights—they must have gone away for the weekend. Thank God.
Hammond's grip on the gun tightened. He raised it as a feeler and led Jan upstairs. He pulled the key to his apartment and opened the door. It was dark inside. He flipped on the light by the door and explored the living room with his eyes and the gun.
Jan breathed shakily beside him, clutching his shoulder. He drew her inside, slammed the door, and locked it. He paused, listening. Nothing. He switched on a light.
The door to his office was slightly ajar. He pushed it open slowly, peering into the darkness and listening before he turned on the light. There seemed to be no one inside, but there certainly had been. Books, papers, and bills were strewn all over the floor. In the center of his desk, held together with a strap, were his briefcase and all his files on Thin Air, ready to go like
a stuffed picnic basket. Hammond managed a smile: McCarthy had failed to get away with them.
He heard Jan gasp behind him and turned. She was peering over his shoulder, wide-eyed at the mess.
"Why don't you go fix your face?" he said softly. "Your mascara's running." She was hesitant to go alone, so he led her to the bedroom, checking the bathroom for her.
He left her, went to the kitchen window, and looked down at his front yard. His mind raced until he began to see the pattern. A device, worn at the base of the neck or implanted there, allowed McCarthy to remove himself at will by dematerializing from anywhere he wished and rematerializing....
Where?
Instantaneous spatial transference. IST. Teleportation. They had stumbled on it in the Philadelphia experiment of 1953. Stumbled on it. Two years later, Project Thin Air had been shut down and the principals involved had moved into private industry. And more than twenty years later, those principals were murdering people to keep their secret....
They had failed with invisibility, so they had turned instead to teleportation.
It was far more useful and apparently less dangerous. McCarthy didn't seem to suffer from chronic aftereffects. And he used the process regularly. He was able to beam himself in and out of the cities where he conducted his "treatment" of the surviving project participants. Very commendable: they were willing to keep these men alive and under control as long as they didn't get nosy, like Fletcher, or start to talk, like Rinehart.
Or investigate, like Hammond.
Now it all hung together, he realized, but still it was nothing more than a defensive operation. It had to cover something bigger. What?
He returned to the living room and inspected the front door, trying to determine how McCarthy got into the apartment. Was he able to teleport himself into a place as well as out of it? Hammond felt around the lock and found scratches left by a burglar's pick, or what he took to be a burglar's pick. McCarthy had entered by conventional means. Hammond wasn't sure if he should feel relieved.
He brought brandy into the bedroom for Jan. He heard the water in the sink go off, then the bathroom door opened, and then he saw her drying her face. She glanced at him across the room.
Thin Air Page 24