Thin Air

by George Simpson

  Hammond interrupted, "And move armies? Tanks, weapons, bombs?"

  Bloch stopped again and smiled. "Coming from a military man, I should have expected that. You may not believe me, but I have no interest in using it that way." His eyes grew cold and he leaned closer to Hammond. "However, if it falls into the hands of the U.S. Government, that's exactly what it will be used for."

  The silence was deadly. Hammond regarded Bloch with stony suspicion, but he couldn't get the man to falter or even look away. He believed what he had just said, believed it wholeheartedly.

  Hammond came back cruelly. "You siphoned off government money to develop it. I think they'll insist on ownership."

  "First they must get hold of it. And until now, I've been too careful to let that happen." He sat down again.

  "Once they find out you've been kiting funds for twenty years, there won't be a thing you can do to stop it."

  Bloch smiled slightly. "Consider yourself apart from the Navy for a moment, out of the service, simply a voting American." He tilted forward on his chair and said simply, "What makes you think the government will make better use of this than I will?"

  The question caught Hammond completely off guard. He glanced at Yablonski, who still stood in the corner, his face hidden in shadow.

  Bloch untangled himself from the chair and stood up, unbuttoning his coat and putting his free hand on one hip. "Twenty-odd years ago," he said, "the Navy gave up developing this because its future as a weapon was dubious. That was as far as they could see. I took it over because I saw the real potential. I was involved with Traben before 1953, before the so-called accidental experiment that sent the Sturman from Philadelphia to Norfolk. And let me tell you something, Commander Hammond, it was no accident."

  Bloch looked sharply at Yablonski and continued, "The whole business with frequency modulation was carefully engineered to accomplish precisely what it did. It was my idea then—and it's mine now"

  He looked back at Hammond. "My interests lie in economics and world commerce, Commander. I'm a businessman, not a murderer."

  Hammond smiled. Coogan's line. But it wasn't hard to tell which one was the mimic. "That depends on the scale," he said. 'To you, a few lives lost in the line of business are like casualties in a war. You don't consider yourself responsible."

  "You have to see the whole picture," Bloch shrugged.

  "I'd like to tell you how many admirals I've heard that from. In case you haven't heard, Mr. Bloch, the ends don't justify the means."

  "How do you think the people would react if they found out we had something that could help relieve massive suffering and the government was going to take it over and use it only as they saw fit?"

  Hammond swung his legs over the bunk and swooped to his feet in a move that startled Bloch. "You think they're going to trust you instead? You're as transparent as glass! You're not doing this for the starving children in Asia. You're a businessman out for profit. You're playing a power game and you've got a price! You'll sell to the highest bidder, whether it's the U.S. Government or the richest American oil company, and you've been courting them like a lovesick suitor!"

  Bloch bore the attack in silence, his face at dead calm. When Hammond was through, he rebuttoned his coat, saying, "You're contaminated, Hammond. You've been in government too long. You can't see through them the way I can."

  "Maybe so, but I'd like to know how you intend to retain control of your great discovery."

  At that, Bloch's smile became almost obscene. "I will set up a network of teleporting devices around the world, in every nation that will buy them—and they all will, even the Arabs, because they won't be able to compete in the world market without them—and that network will be serviced strictly by my own personnel. If anyone tries to tamper with our operation, the machines will be removed the same way we removed the Sturman. Instantly." His voice rose: "When teleportation arrives on the market, no country or business will afford to be without it. Otherwise, they will simply cease to exist."

  The implications were staggering. If Bloch was right, he was going to be the world's next biggest monopoly and, after a few years of successful business, perhaps the only game in town. Economic control was the only possible way to dominate in this world, and Bloch had the means to make it work.

  "Even our way of life will change," Bloch was saying, expounding on his dream. "The daily routine we depend on will be different. And it's all going to happen quickly. It's taken us years to perfect this, but now it's only a matter of putting it into production and acquiring locations. You're at the age, Commander, when you're still flexible enough to accept the changes, to roll with them. I admire your tenacity and intelligence. You have pursued us with consummate skill and a lot of ingenuity. I do not share Admiral Corso's opinion of you. Do you understand what I'm saying?"

  Hammond shook his head.

  "I'm offering you your life," said Bloch. "I want you to join me, immediately."

  Hammond stared at him, hardly believing his ears. He asked simply, "What about Yablonski?"

  Bloch held Hammond's gaze long enough to communicate an unspoken answer. Then he swung his eyes around and settled on Yablonski's pale features. Yablonski's eyes were slitted coals of defiance.

  Bloch became silky smooth. "Of course there's a place for you as well," he said, without specifying. He turned back to Hammond pointedly. "Think it over. Both of you."

  He turned and rapped twice on the door. It swung open and he stepped out. Hammond heard his steps fading away. The guard remained poised outside the door. A second man came in to remove the lunch tray. When he went out, Hammond heard a bolt slide. He jumped quickly to the door and pressed his ear against the wood.

  He listened until the jiggling sound of the tray had completely faded, then he heard a scuffling sound just outside the door: the guard had remained.

  "So there's a place for me, too," he heard Yablonski snort, and turned to see him step into the light, his cheek quivering with rage. "Sure there is," he continued. "Underwater inspector without air."

  "Probably," Hammond agreed.

  Yablonski pulled off his jacket and tossed it aside, then sank down on the bunk and ran a hand through his hair.

  Hammond looked at his own hands; they were quivering. Nerves. Was it Bloch's confidence or this ship and its ghosts? Sartog—Hammond shivered. He felt he hadn't seen the last of Sartog.

  What to do about now?

  Maybe if Bloch was serious about wanting Hammond on his side, Yablonski's life could be bartered into the deal. But the idea of negotiating with these horrors on any terms filled Hammond with nausea. There was no choice.

  They had to escape.

  23

  The silence in the cabin was broken by a series of thuds from somewhere forward. Hammond looked out a porthole. Three dockworkers were struggling to fold the yellow tarp that had been wrapped around the bridge superstructure. He watched as they lowered the huge canvas down the ladder, then left the ship with it, clumping down the loading ramp.

  The sound of a heavy door closing reverberated throughout the shed. The soft illumination outside faded to darkness as the worklights were dimmed.

  "What's going on?" Yablonski asked, his voice flat, unemotional.

  "They took down the tarp that was covering the bridge."

  "Oh, Christ," said Yablonski, "they're going to send the ship somewhere else...."

  Hammond suspected he was right. Whether one or both of them would be going with it, he didn't even want to guess, but the Sturman was probably due for a quick trip to some out-of-the-way port, where it could not be traced and they could take their time about destroying it.

  "You know," said Hammond, "unless my count is wrong, there's only one guard left in this whole shed—the clown right outside our door." Hammond saw a glimmer of hope shoot across Yablonski's face. "That doesn't mean we can get out of this," he continued, "but it does cut the odds."

  "To what?" Yablonski mumbled. "To only one of us getting killed?"r />
  "Look, why do you suppose we're still alive?"

  Yablonski shrugged. "They're slow."

  "No, I think something's holding them back. If Bloch really wants me to throw in with him, then he won't dare mess around with you: he knows I'd never cooperate."

  He watched Yablonski carefully, not believing his own words for a second, but hoping they would have the tight effect. It was so preposterous, Bloch's trying to hire him. What for? Unless Bloch was planning to do away with some other member of the team, such as that renowned fumble-foot, McCarthy. Yes, that made at least a bit of sense.

  Yablonski slid to the edge of the bunk and said, "Suppose you're wrong. Suppose it's all lies and he does intend to get rid of us, and he's just stringing us along until...until there's some reaction in Philadelphia! If they come knocking at his door, asking for the Sturman, then he'll get rid of us!"

  Hammond silently mouthed a curse. Yablonski hadn't been fooled by his optimism. It didn't take much imagination to picture what was going on in Philadelphia and Washington right now. The Navy might occasionally misplace a ship, but if they got an eyewitness report of one disappearing, it would shake up an awful lot of people. McWilliams had escaped by a hair's-breadth and could tell quite a story. But could he? How sure was Hammond that he had escaped? How sure was Bloch? McCarthy would tell him there had been three men aboard, but only two had been captured. Where was the third? At large in Philadelphia? Bloch would picture the same sequence of events as Hammond: the third man going to the authorities, probably the higher-ups at NIS; Smitty immediately suspecting who was responsible, then descending on MTL's Manhattan Beach plant like lightning. That would tip off Bloch to get rid of the Sturman. And Hammond. And Yablonski. Not in a million years would Smitty think to check MTL's San Pedro plant first.

  Bloch had run a risk snatching the Sturman from Philadelphia. He had given Hammond the hard evidence he needed. If the NIS could walk into this shed and catch him with the ship, that would be all they'd need to lock him away, forever.

  But time was clearly on Bloch's side, and one minute was all he needed to dispose of the evidence.

  Only if Hammond and Yablonski could escape and let somebody know where they were, and how they arrived here, could they hope to nail Bloch. Then, even if he disposed of the destroyer, the presence of these two men, three thousand miles from where they had been seen only an hour before, would be enough to clinch the case.

  Briefly, he explained it all to Yablonski. "What the hell do we do about it?" Cas asked.

  "Wait for the next guy who comes through that door. Then make our own opportunity. Until then, try to get some sleep."

  Yablonski frowned deeply, then sighed and stretched out on the bunk.

  Hammond eased into the captain's chair and closed his eyes, forcing his mind to slow down. He was confident now that he had a handle on what had to be done.

  The cabin door slammed open and woke him. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Yablonski shrink against the bulkhead. The guard stepped in, carrying a compact submachine gun. Then Dr. McCarthy's bulk filled the doorway, a brown leather case clutched loosely in his hand.

  "Thought I'd drop in and see how you're doing," McCarthy boomed.

  "Is this an authorized visit?" Hammond asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes.

  McCarthy put the case down on the captain's desk, opened it, and pulled out a bottle of brandy and two snifters. "Compliments of F.P. Bloch," he said. "Old and good." He filled both glasses and, with a sweeping gesture, indicated they should help themselves.

  Yablonski stayed rooted against the bulkhead, his face ashen. McCarthy's eyes swung to Hammond. "What are you waiting for?" he demanded. "Oh, I get it! You think it's drugged! Well—" He snatched up the bottle and took a healthy swallow.

  He lowered the bottle, blew out a gust of air to cool his mouth, and, with great solemnity, handed a glass to Yablonski.

  Cas reached for it gingerly. His eyes never left McCarthy.

  McCarthy turned with a crooked smile. "You too, Commander. We're gonna drink a toast—to your future."

  Hammond reached for the remaining glass and nodded at the guard. "How about your friend?"

  "He's still on duty. Wouldn't do to have us all in the bag now, would it?"

  Hammond took a sip. McCarthy was right: the brandy was good. "Are you really a doctor?" he asked.

  "Sure I am!" McCarthy laughed, raised the bottle, and took another pull, waving his free hand at Hammond. "Bloch wants you, Hammond. Wants to add you to the family."

  Hammond snorted.

  "What the old man wants, he gets. Always." He rocked back on his heels and chuckled throatily, enjoying a private joke.

  The bottle clinked as he set it down on the desk. "Too bad that doesn't include Yablonski."

  Hammond measured the distance to the guard. The submachine gun was pointed at his midsection.

  McCarthy wagged a finger at him and warned, "Don't try it." He smiled at Hammond, then turned and reached into the brown case. He pulled out a duplicate of the tape recorder and microphone he'd used on Yablonski in Boston.

  Yablonski saw it and moaned. Hammond felt his stomach roil. "Does Bloch think I'll work for him if you do this to Cas?"

  McCarthy wrapped the mike cord around his wrist and glared. He pointed the mike at Hammond, who flinched instinctively. "Get used to this little gadget," he said. "Because after I've taken care of your friend, I'll start on you."

  McCarthy made a final adjustment on the tape recorder, then slung the strap over his shoulder and let the instrument hang at his side.

  "In case nobody mentioned it before, Hammond," he said, "we know where Mrs. Fletcher is...and Mrs. Yablonski."

  Hammond felt himself stiffen. He opened his mouth but couldn't get his breath. He made a move to rise and the guard pushed him down with the barrel of the submachine gun. He glanced at Cas—who was staring at McCarthy, quivering with rage.

  "So everybody's going to cooperate, right?" McCarthy continued smoothly. "Drink up, Yablonski. Might as well go happy."

  Helpless, Hammond watched Yablonski slowly drain his glass, then drop it on the bunk. Cas drew up his legs and huddled against the bulkhead, his mouth closed, cheeks puffed out, looking as if his face were about to explode.

  Satisfied that there was going to be no trouble, McCarthy punched the record button and a low hum started. Yablonski covered his ears, trying to block out the sound. Two steps and McCarthy was at the bunk, holding the mike in front of him like a magic wand.

  "Come on, Cas," he crooned. "It's just a little sixty-cycle hum, a soothing tone. It can't hurt you; it never has before. You've always liked it, Cas. It brings relief, remember? The nightmares—you don't like the nightmares. You don't want them anymore, do you? Want to get rid of them once and for all? Come on, Cas—"

  He had an amazing, hypnotic tone, once he got going, but the drinking had made him impatient. And when he realized Yablonski wasn't responding, he grew irritated. Yablonski was clutching his ears so tightly, his fingers had turned white. McCarthy rapped on his knuckles with the mike—gently at first then with increasing vigor, all the while keeping up his patter.

  Hammond watched, seething. All he could think of was Jan at the safe house, Jan curled up by a fire, waiting for him to come back, by a fire...like Rinehart...a sitting duck.

  "Come on, Cas, quit playing with me. It's not getting you anywhere. This is what you've wanted all your life: relief from the torment, from those endless dreams of men vanishing, crewmates slipping through walls, drifting to their deaths, exploding into infinity....Come on....Come on!"

  McCarthy was shouting now and Hammond shook watching him slap Yablonski's wrists with the mike, torturing the man until Hammond didn't even realize he was on his feet, snarling, "You sonofabitch!"

  The guard's machine gun appeared under his nose and he stopped.

  Yablonski's head rolled from side to side as he slid lower in the bunk, trying to avoid the blows and shut out that voice. Strang
e animal-like sounds came from his throat. McCarthy leaned over, still coaxing him. He tried to pry one of Cas's hands loose.

  That's what Yablonski had been waiting for.

  Both his hands shot out. He pulled McCarthy's face down and spit the brandy he'd been holding in, his mouth right into the doctor's widening eyes. Then he shoved with flexed legs, caught McCarthy in the pelvis and sent him hurtling into the startled guard. Both went down in a jumbled heap.

  Hammond grabbed the back of the chair and swung it over his head, aiming for the two men at his feet. McCarthy managed to roil away a split second before the chair hit. The guard caught a blow in the ribs. Hammond dropped on him instantly and got him in a neck lock.

  Yablonski came off the bunk with a bellow. McCarthy was pawing for the door. Yablonski clamped a hand over his open mouth and pulled him back. McCarthy's hands groped for Yablonski's throat, trying to wrap the mike cord around it.

  The guard's fingers quivered from Hammond's pressure on his carotid artery, but he still clawed for the trigger of the submachine gun. Suddenly, he shook violently, and Hammond felt something give in his neck.

  The guard slumped and Hammond ripped the weapon from his lifeless fingers, reversed the barrel and clubbed McCarthy across the back of his skull.

  McCarthy moaned once, then Yablonski let him slip to the deck where he was still.

  Yablonski's breath came in shuddering gasps. He reached for the submachine gun.

  "Give me that, Hammond," he muttered, a wild look on his face.

  "Don't be a fool, Cas. One shot and they'll be all over us."

  Yablonski raised his foot to kick McCarthy's face in.

  "We've bought some time!" Hammond warned. "Now let's use it!"

  Yablonski's foot hovered. Slowly, he lowered it to the deck, his terrible rage subsiding.

  Hammond used his own shoulder holster to tie McCarthy, and a piece of the dead guard's shirt to gag him. Hammond checked the passageway, then the two men slipped out together. Hammond closed and bolted the cabin door.