"Paul," Steen said carefully. "We could travel a long way on even a quarter million, you and I. We could be big men in South America."
"Yeah." I looked thoughtful for a second. "OK, Dr. Prufro, somebody's got to take a chance. It might as well be me, I haven't got a smell of that kind of dough any other way." I fished around in my pocket, got out keys and opened a little strongbox under the drafting table. "Here. This ought to be worth something. Nobody knows it's missing, the certificate of destruction was made out properly, never mind how. Nobody'll ever be looking for this. By the way, once you walk out of here it can't be traced to me either. I'm willing to let you take it on speculation. You see what you can get for it and bring me my share. That ought to prove that you've got a source with something worth selling . . ."
"Yes." Prufro examined it with interest. "This seems quite authentic, Mr. Crane. Missile base emplacements . . . yes, not exactly scientific information, but certainly valuable. And it does, as you suggest, demonstrate a willingness to sell."
"I've got more along the same lines," I told him. He looked eager. "Let's see what you get for that first. How much would you say?"
"Perhaps ten thousand dollars, five thousand for you." Prufro was hanging onto the document as if he thought I'd snatch it away.
He'd passed the first test. He wasn't trying to shortchange us, the opposite in fact, he'd never get that much for it. It remained to see if he could get anything at all, and if so, whether we'd see any of it. I tried to look nervous. "Just keep in mind, Dr. Prufro, I've got more like that for sale, and Steen has something even more valuable in his head. Keep that image of a one and six zeroes firmly in sight at all times. Concentrate on that if you ever get the idea of pocketing my share of what you've got in your hands."
He stood, shook his head sadly. "So much distrust, Mr. Crane. A real pity. But we hope to prove to you that we act in good faith. Let's shake hands like gentlemen, shall we?" I took his hand, a flabby cold thing with no grip. Prufro shook with Steen, then excused himself. I watched him plod apologetically off the stoop, then nodded at Hoorne. "What do you think?" Steen asked me. "Damned if I know. Can't be cops, you'd be in the jug right now. How in hell did they know you were here? Those guys must have a pretty good organization, you know that?"
"Do you believe that guff about them being brokers? I think they're commies. The creep looked like a commie," Steen snorted and clinked the Scotch bottle against the glass, not pouring anything.
"Better not drink so much," I told him. "And get over that attitude. So they're commies. You just keep in mind, they're the guys who are going to pay us for the contents of your head, my friend. Let's face it, it would take us time to find a buyer. We can't advertise." I lit my pipe, flopped in the big leather chair. "Here, put a record on and let's relax."
Beethoven's Fifth boomed out of the stereo again, and I got the box Dykeman had left, fitted the earphones to it and jammed them into my ears so I couldn't hear the music. Then I tuned across the dial, turning the knob very slowly. About halfway over, there was the Fifth, loud and clear. I nodded to Steen.
"Uh, Paul?" he said softly.
"Yeah?"
"Oh, nothing." He walked slowly around the room, fiddling with his pipe. "Do you think this is going to work out all right? I'm a bit scared. What if they—what if they don't pay us?"
"They'll pay us. The main thing is to keep them from knowing we're worried." I waved him out toward the dining room. "I mean, we've got the edge. You really do know everything about those tame ruby lights of yours."
He walked along, giving me a solo act about how nervous he was, with me telling him not to worry, we'd make sure they didn't cheat us. By the time he got to the far edge of the dining room I couldn't really understand him over the music. I let the record run out and tested again with him walking around some more. It turned out that you could hear anything in the living room office, record or not, and could make out most of what was being said in the other rooms although with a record on it was a little garbled. Steen and I went into the kitchen to start on the dinner. We didn't go near the low bookshelf in the office.
Chapter Five
Dinner was a little strained. Even though my tests showed their bug probably wouldn't pick up conversations out in the kitchen, it seemed safer to play it straight all the time. That put Steen in the role of a scared man with a million bucks' worth of military secrets who drank too much, me as the guy who'd stumbled into something good and wasn't letting go, and Janie as my girl friend. Her role was the toughest of all. She was supposed to know all about us, but not that we knew she was feeding Prufro's people information. From their point of view she was attaching herself to me as their inside girl, ready to report on any changes in our attitude. From ours, she didn't know about the racket, she was just my mistress.
It made it hard for her to play, and she fell back on a kind of strumpet act, a girl determined to make me think she was fascinated with me. I didn't like her that way. I mean, I was perfectly happy to have her go nuts about me, but not to act like it for the benefit of the damned electron box in the bookcase. Besides, it got me confused as to what was the real Janie and which act was what. She couldn't come out of the role even in the bedroom. Not that I blamed her, changing acts all the time is tough, but I'd like to have had the real girl back.
If, I kept trying not to think, there was a real girl under there somewhere. I mean, who was she? Not Miss Youngs, loan counselor and officer at a local bank. Not the medium-grade strumpet hanging on to me for the money I might pick up selling out my country. An Agency girl on an assignment? In which case, what was the assignment, and how did I fit into her orders, and when the box wasn't there was it still an act, this time for me courtesy of Shearing and Company? As I said, I tried to avoid thoughts like that, but they kept coming around, and in that place there wasn't any way to get the problem out in the open.
We went through the night and the next day playing games. The day after, about the same time as before, Prufro showed up on the stoop.
"I have good news for you," he said after he got inside.
"Fine." I showed him into the office. Since I hadn't opened the drapes from the night before it seemed safe enough to bring Steen in.
"Yes. Excellent news." He opened a little attaché case. "Not, perhaps, quite as much as I thought at first, but still a healthy sum. Three thousand dollars."
It made quite a package. I handed some of it to Steen and began counting my pile, while Prufro sat back with a little smile, watching us while he drank my beer and made like Father Christmas. "It seems to be all here," we told him.
"Of course. Now, I believe you mentioned some other documents?" He didn't rub his hands together, but he might as well have. He had on a new pair of shoes, the soles hardly had a scratch.
I looked at him thoughtfully. "Yeah. Well, I can risk a couple more. When do we get to the big show?"
"Ah. For that we must have samples. Dr. Hoorne, would you be willing to meet with a member of Information Associates and discuss your specialty? Give him, shall we say, something to use to convince our clients of your value?"
"What about it, Paul?" Steen asked. He gave Prufro a searching look, then turned back to me. "Should we?"
"Why not? We've come this far. What do you make of those documents, Dr. Prufro?"
He had been thumbing through them, shook his head sadly. "I regret to say that the two of them together are probably worth no more than, oh, ten thousand dollars. Perhaps not that much. Our buyers have informed us that missile base information is not really their highest priority. I gather that they have, uh, other sources. Free enterprise has the disadvantage of competition, you know," he added pompously.
"Yeah. When?"
"Oh, we could pay you quite soon. This evening, perhaps. Under the circumstances we would be prepared to advance you four thousand dollars. If we sell them for more than eight we will give you the balance due. Is that satisfactory?" I nodded. He turned to Steen. "Have you reached
a decision, Dr. Hoorne?"
"Paul says it's all right. What do you want to know?"
Prufro shook his head, a precise little gesture. "Regretfully, that is not my specialty. And unfortunately, the man you must meet does not care to come to this house. You will have to meet him."
"I'll be damned," Steen said vigorously.
"So much distrust," Prufro observed. "Very sad.
What could happen to you anywhere else that cannot be arranged here? And you must not think you are the only ones taking risks. No, if it were left to me we would conclude our business here, but my associate insists that you come to meet him. It will be quite safe." He touched his fingers together, clutching the documents against his belly with his wrists. "Surely we can manage something? This has been very profitable, we mustn't spoil it."
"What the hell, Steen, he's right. If they're going to turn you in to the cops, they can do it from here."
"Yeah." He poured another slug of Scotch, tossed it off. That drinking act was great for short spurts, but I wished he'd thought of something else. He was going to pickle himself if we ever had a long conference with these jokers. "All right."
Prufro gave us a big oily smile. "Mr. Crane, be at the Laundromat behind the Pay and Save drug store at precisely eight this evening and answer the telephone. You will be told where to meet us. Be ready to leave at once, and make no calls after you have talked to us." He stood, gave us another smile. "In this business it is sometimes desirable to be a bit melodramatic."
I agreed, but I didn't think he'd appreciate my observations on the subject.
I was in the Laundromat at the right time, and the phone rang as advertised. It was Prufro on the other end, of course, and he told me to go out to the Red Dog Tavern in Carnation. Somebody would let us know what to do after that.
It seemed a hell of a long way to drive. Carnation is a little hick dairy town northeast of Seattle in the middle of some farming country and wooded hills with trout streams. I knew about it, I'd had clients-back when I had clients—who had me put in access roads and bridges not far from there. A few miles east of Carnation there's a complex of woodlands and beaver dams with some of the best fishing near Seattle. I just hope nobody finds out about them so the water isn't churning with lures on opening day the way most streams are now.
Carnation was a long way off, but it had the advantage that nobody was likely to recognize Steen. I made no objections; I mean, we weren't really being hard to get, we just wanted the other side to think we were.
The drive out in my Barracuda was dull. We took that car because it was still trying to rain and the leaky top on the TR was just too discouraging. The Red Dog turned out to be a big barn of a place with sawdust on the floor and thick wood tables. It was half empty, the other half full of farmers tossing off a few after a hard day's milking or whatever they do around there. For laughs they had TV in one corner and a couple of fights in the other. When one of the fights would get out of hand, the bartender, a big character about six five and weighing easily three hundred, would come around the counter, motion to a skinny guy who sat at one end, and between them they'd shift the whole fight out in the street. I watched it the first time and didn't believe it, but it happened again, four guys pounding away in a free-for-all, and here comes this human moose with his beanpole assistant moving in on them. They sort of surrounded them with their arms and out went the fight, a living entity not just a collection of people.
Steen nodded. "I have seen that before, in Ballard when I was young. Not many bartenders know how to do that, now."
"I'll bet they don't. Looks like a handy trick . . ."
The phone rang. The bartender shouted "Crane?" and I went to take it. It didn't take long. I said "Crane" and the phone answered "Paradise Lodge. Four miles south of you there's a turnoff. A mile east on that is the lodge. Of course you will telephone no one."
We got in the car before I told Steen. I didn't have to telephone anyone, my car was wired. At least it was supposed to be, and somebody should have been close enough to hear what went on in it, but we'd seen no signs of company. If the company was going to be any use, we wouldn't.
The Paradise Lodge was a rundown old motel built back when this road must have got considerably more traffic than it did now. Paint was peeling off the white clapboard cabins, and the only one with a light in it was number four. On the way we'd picked up an escort, someone driving about a hundred yards behind us, obviously matching his speed to us. When we pulled up at cabin four a new Chevy parked just far enough away so I couldn't see the plates and a girl got out.
She was quite a dish, about medium-size with a healthy pink face and long carefully brushed hair. She had on a pair of those fancy new slacks, the thin ones with flowers and things all over them. There was a blouse made out of the same kind of cloth, thin cotton, but a different pattern. The outfit included about five scarves. There was one over her head, another around her waist, and a couple more artistically knotted together around her neck. An unbuttoned white leather coat completed the outfit. She grinned at us, a young clean-cut-girl grin. "Go on in," she invited.
There was just one guy in there, a young fellow no more than twenty-five. He looked at the girl possessively for a second, then noticed us. "Any problem, Bev?"
"No. They came right out of the tavern and drove straight here. There wasn't any more traffic on the road." She took off the coat and threw it across the bed. "Something to drink? We don't have a big variety, but there's Scotch. You like beer, don't you, Mr. Crane?"
"Yes, thanks. Steen, you better stick to beer after all the Scotch."
"I don't need a nursemaid," he said irritably. "Yeah, give me beer. Thanks."
"OK, who are you?" I demanded. The two of them were just kids. The boy was an average-looking boy, clean-shaven, close-cut brown hair, freckles, a personnel man's image of the perfect junior executive. His sports shirt was clean and well pressed, a subdued pastel green, and his slacks were some kind of wool, well tailored. I don't know what I'd expected, but he wasn't it. He was wearing something, a political pin or button, and I leaned over to take a closer look. It showed a chain with a broken link, and in small letters the broken link was labeled "laissez-faire." I looked puzzled, then saw that the girl was wearing one too.
"I'm Dick," he said. "I know something about lasers, and you know who I represent. Let's get on with it, shall we?" He was working at being serious and businesslike, not saying anything unnecessary.
"Sure," Steen answered. "It's been a long drive. So you know lasers, tell me what you think of Mayer's work with gaseous plasmas." At least that's what I think he said. It might have been something else. I'm just a civil engineer and when I took physics there weren't any lasers in my books. The kid made some kind of appropriate response, Steen looked surprised, and I wandered over to the corner where the girl was sitting. There wasn't any point in my listening to them.
"Mind telling me what the pins are for?" I asked her.
"Just what they say. Support of free enterprise," she told me. She opened her bag to show me some others. "Legalize abortion,"
"Legalize marijuana."
"God grows his own" were some of them. "We believe in freedom," she said.
"That's why you're collecting information to sell to the commies?"
She looked disappointed. "You're selling it, you know."
"For money, doll. I don't brag about it. If I could make a good living some other way, I'd probably try it."
"Yes, but you see, that's what's wrong with everything. No freedom. Your friend there is not free to sell his ideas to the highest bidder. The government makes him a slave. They did that to Dick, too. Tried to keep him in the army, pay him a lieutenant's wages to work on projects worth millions."
"If the Russians win this thing, there won't be much freedom," I protested. It wasn't much of an argument, and the last thing I needed to do was talk the kids out of whatever idiocy they'd got into, but it was an interesting point of view.
She smiled again, a superior sort of smile. I recognized it immediately. All the little leftists from my ex-wife's old crowd had it. Pity for the poor dope who was just so ignorant he couldn't see the truth.
Except for the expression she had a nice face. The thin slacks and blouse didn't leave much doubt that the rest of her was constructed pretty well. I'd had worse people to endure for an evening. "If we had real freedom, the communists would never have a chance," she said seriously. "Slavery can't compete with freedom, but it has to be real freedom, not this drifting to slavery we've got now."
She had a lot more, about the military, and government contracts, and taxes, and government monopolies in education, a ready-made spiel she'd given so often I doubt she even knew what she was saying anymore. A lot of it made sense, but everything was carried out to its logical conclusion. I don't know much about politics, but I do know that nobody can live where everything has to be logical. People aren't very logical, and I think I'm glad of it.
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