She yawned, still once again, and stretched. “You’re prettier than Dr. Ryan,” she told him. “It’s that dimple in your chin.”
Finished dressing, he headed for the door. “Okay, the dining room in about an hour. I don’t think the interview will take that long. For one thing, I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about.”
He headed for the stairway, sorry now that he’d made the date for breakfast with her. He was mildly hungry and could have eaten before looking the Academician up. He had no definite appointment with Suvorov. Perhaps the other wouldn’t even remember him.
He had no difficulty in finding the office formerly occupied by Nils Petersen; as Annette had said, it was two floors up. He knocked at the door and promptly received a “Come in,” in Esperanto.
Leonard Suvorov was seated at his desk, stylo in hand, several books spread out before him. To his right, the screen of the data banks library booster was lit and a page of another volume was on it.
The Russian looked up at Bruce’s entry, frowned only momentarily, then said, “Ah, the writer fellow. Pull up a chair and rest it, to use the Americanism.” He indicated a straight chair, right next to the desk.
Bruce took it, relaxed, and crossed his legs. “Where did you pick up that particular Americanism?” he said. They were both speaking English now, rather than the international tongue.
The heavyset biologist smiled ruefully. “Ai, Ai,” he said. “Have I made a mistake again? I’m an omnivorous reader. Some years ago I went through a period of devouring American suspense novels. I picked up some of the idiom, I suppose.”
As he talked, he picked up the stylo, which he had put down to shake hands. Now he pulled a paper pad between them and printed on it.
“ROOM IS ELECTRONICALLY MONITORED BY L5 SECURITY.”
Bruce Carter raised his eyebrows but then nodded. The freelancer said, “Sir, you’ll remember that in the Goddard, when I asked you for an interview, you suggested that I wait until we arrived here in Island One. That you needed some time to get even first impressions of the magnitude of your task.”
“Yes, of course,” the Russian said. As Bruce talked, he had printed again.
“I BELIEVE BIONOMICS ATTEMPTS HERE ARE A FARCE AND THAT MY PREDECESSOR PETERSEN WAS MURDERED TO PREVENT HIM FROM REVEALING THE FACT TO SCIENTIFIC COMMUNITY EARTHSIDE.”
Bruce, even as he read, was saying, “So, I thought I’d drop by and see how you felt about it all at this stage.”
“Well, frankly, young man,” the other said heavily, as though thinking it out as he went along, “I’m afraid that I’m still in much the same position as before. Unhappily, my colleagues, Nils Petersen and Professor Chu Sing, aren’t here to brief me on what has already been accomplished. Dr. Petersen met with an unfortunate accident here in Island One and Professor Chu returned to Earth where he was struck by an automobile.”
He had been printing again as he talked.
“I SUSPECT FOUL PLAY IN HIS DEATH.”
Bruce let his voice reflect disappointment. “But didn’t they leave notes on their work?”
Suvorov was again writing, even as he answered.
He said, “Unfortunately, Petersen’s papers have all been mislaid. I suppose that Doctor Casey, of Sol Ryan’s staff, will turn them up sooner or later. Professor Chu’s notes seem to be all in Chinese. I doubt if there’s a person in the island who could read them.”
“I READ MANDARIN AND HAVE PERUSED CHU’S PAPERS. BOTH PETERSEN AND CHU HAD CONCLUDED THAT CLOSED ECOSYSTEM WAS IMPOSSIBLE AT THIS TIME. WHEN PETERSEN WAS KILLED, CHU FEARED FOR HIS OWN LIFE AND PLANNED TO RETURN TO EARTH SURROUNDED BY SECRETARY AND AIDES.”
Bruce took the stylo from the other’s hand and wrote.
“WHAT CAN I DO?”
Aloud he said, “Well, this is a disappointment, but I suppose the thing for me to do is to come back in a few days.” He handed the writing instrument back to the other.
The Russian, even as he spoke, wrote again. He said, wryly, “I’m afraid that it will be more than a few days before I have a very clear picture. But we shall see.”
“GET BACK TO EARTH SOON AS POSSIBLE. TAKE ALL MEASURES TO EXPOSE SITUATION, INCLUDING CHU’S DEATH.”
Bruce Carter came to his feet. “Right,” he said. “I’ll look you up again before I leave. It’s indefinite how long I’ll be staying.”
Leonard Suvorov took up the sheet of paper they had been writing on and, taking a leaf from the book of experience of his Cheka contact, Alvar Saarinen, tore it into pieces and put them into his mouth, chewed, and swallowed.
He said, “Very good, my young friend. See you around, as you Yankees put it.” He didn’t get up to accompany the freelancer to the door.
Bruce left and, for a moment, stood in the hall, trying to make sense of it.
Was the noted scientist out of his mind? However, on the ace of it, the story made some sense. Bruce Carter had heard of both Doctor Nils Petersen and Professor Chu Sing. They were almost as well noted in the field of bionomics as was Suvorov himself, and if they had reported to the scientific world that Sol Ryan’s plans to create a closed ecosystem in Island One were impossible, it would have been disastrous to the L5 Project. All ultimately depended upon such a closed system. It didn’t make sense to continue the fantastic expense of supplying the needs of ten thousand people in space from Earthside. As a temporary expedient, it was one thing, but sooner or later such a closed system simply had to be achieved.
Very well, such a report would have been a disaster. No one would have taken the word of even Solomon Ryan against that of Petersen and the Chinese. But that didn’t mean that the powers of Lagrange Five were so ruthless as to have the two scientists murdered to insure their silence. Certainly, the genial Sol Ryan couldn’t have been privy to such a conspiracy, not to speak of Annette. And through their hands went every thread of the complicated tapestry that was the L5 Project. They would have known of the plot. Wouldn’t they?
He shook his head and decided to take it up with Pete Kapitz. This was obviously just the sort of thing Pete and his boss, Roy Thomas, were looking for. And they’d have the resources to check it out. He headed for Pete’s room, two floors down and immediately next to his own.
The hall was deserted save for one man coming toward him, carrying a leather tool satchel with MAINTENANCE stenciled on its side. It wasn’t until they were within a few feet of each other that Bruce saw, to his surprise, that it was Cris Everett, the sour-faced window washer and member of the Central Committee of Adam Bloch’s so-called underground. Bruce came to a halt.
The other approached him, looking up and down the corridor furtively. He put his mouth to Bruce’s ear and whispered, “Can they bug a hotel hall like this?”
The freelancer whispered back, “Damned if I know. Not very effectively, I imagine. And whoever was doing it would have his work cut out deciding who was talking.”
Everett whispered, “Jesus, I’m glad I found you. I sneaked into the hotel as a repairman. Adam’s hiding out. He wants to see you.”
Bruce squinted at him. “Why?” he said. “What happened to the others?”
The window washer looked up and down the hall, nervously, and still whispered. “They were shipped out to the Luna base by Security. But Adam’s a teacher and there aren’t any kids over there; too rugged. He and I got a chance to slip off and we’re hiding out with some Club members.”
Bruce said, “Come along. I’m on my way to see the IABI man, Peter Kapitz. Something else has come up. Things are coming to a head.”
Peter Kapitz had been up on the roof attempting to raise Roy Thomas again on his scrambled transceiver. It hadn’t worked out that way. The voice that answered was that of John Edward Wilson, Director of the IABI and his ultimate superior.
Wilson had said flatly, “There have been some developments, Kapitz. Your orders are to return as soon as possible. Further, you are to discuss with no one at all anything concerning your assignment, or anything that you have thus
far discovered in your investigation. Nobody whatsoever. Is that understood?”
Kapitz was set back. “But, sir,” he said. “I have just begun to get results. To my surprise, I’ve got quite a bit of the very kind of evidence Mr. Thomas sent me up for.”
“We’ll discuss your evidence later, Kapitz. Meanwhile, make immediate arrangements to return.”
Pete Kapitz didn’t like it. Why, he didn’t know. After all, Wilson was the Director of the Bureau. He said, hesitantly, “But, sir, Mr. Thomas has explained that I am working directly under the President. I was to report only to Thomas, take orders only from him.”
“There have been some changes,” the other said grimly. “Among other things, Roy Thomas is no longer with us. I have discussed this with President Corcoran. Now, no more of your confounded lip. Return to Greater Washington immediately.”
“Yes, sir,” Pete said unhappily, even as the lardy face of his superior faded from the tiny screen.
When he returned to his room, it was to find Rick Venner seated there in the best chair his quarters afforded.
He began to demand an explanation, but the other held up a hand for silence, pointed around the room at the TV screen, the phone screen, and other electronic features of the furnishings, and then at his ear.
Pete shook his head and scowled at his visitor. “No. It’s not bugged. Not any more. I deactivated it the first day I was here. The next day, they repaired it twice, while I was out of the room. And I deactivated it twice again. Evidently, they’ve given up. I don’t know what the hell they expected to hear, anyway. Now what in the name of Jesus do you think you have in mind breaking into my room?”
Rick Venner stood and took a chubby Gyrojet pistol from his pocket and fixed his eyes on the other thoughtfully.
Pete Kapitz stared at the gun. Like a damn fool, he told himself, he had left his own weapon in his handbag.
“Okay, Rocks,” he said. “But you obviously won’t get away with it.”
Rick reversed the gun and handed it to the IABI man, then turned and reseated himself. He said, conversationally, “There’s a contract out on you, Kapitz.”
Pete gawked at him. “A contract! Are you out of your mind? What are you talking about?”
“Al Moore’s given me the job of hitting you.”
“Why?” the IABI man said in bewilderment.
“Because he knows that you weren’t really sent up here to look for me. Somebody’s sent you up to snoop. And our friend Al evidently doesn’t think the L5 Project can bear any snooping, for which I don’t blame him. From what I’ve already seen and heard, the whole thing’s a shambles. Christ only knows what would happen if all those investors in the Lagrange Five Corporation found it out.”
Pete slumped down to the side of the bed and tossed the gun the other had given him to the bed cover.
He said fretfully, “All right, give me the whole story.”
Rick said, “I don’t know the whole story, but to begin with, Al Moore and Mark Donald are both pros. I’ve been a grifter all my life, and it takes one to know one. For that matter, I suspect that all these Security bastards are pros. At any rate, Al Moore wants you hit. He figured out a very neat way to pull it off without anything pointing to him, or to the L5 Project administration in general. Your cover was that you were looking for me. Wizard. Moore figured on setting it up in such a way that I’d hit you while Bruce Carter, that writer guy, was on the scene. Supposedly, I had the perfect motive for plugging you. You were after me. Then, according to Moore, I’d be arrested and sentenced to twenty years or so hard labor. But they promised to put me in a hideaway where I could live it up until I thought it was safe to return to Earth.”
Pete gave him the eye for a long moment. “Why didn’t you do it?” he said.
“Because I’m not a killer and particularly because I’m not stupid. Dead men tell no tales. As soon as I’d hit you, they would have gunned me down. Bruce Carter would have had the action story of his life. And no fingers would be pointing at the L5 Project.”
“Why’d you come to me?”
“Where else is there to go?”
Pete took him in.
Rick said, “We’re in this together now, Pete. It’s you and me and, frankly, we haven’t got a chance in a million.”
The IABI operative sighed, picked up the gun, and tossed it over to the jewel thief. He came to his feet, went over to the closet, and fished out his luggage. He came up with another gun, just slightly larger than the one he’d returned to the other. He tucked it into his belt, under his jacket.
Rick Venner put his weapon away, too. And they looked at each other for a long moment, neither of them with readable expressions on their faces.
There came a knock at the door; they both started and shot another look at each other. Pete Kapitz shrugged and walked over to the entry. He opened up carefully, his right hand under his jacket. Bruce Carter came in, followed by an apprehensive-looking Cris Everett.
The writer looked first at Rick, then Pete. “What the hell goes on?” he said.
“We’re having a love fest,” Rick told him, his grin on a bias. “The original plans involved you being in on it.” He looked at the window washer. “Who in the hell’s this?”
“Cris Everett,” Bruce told him, sending his eyes to Pete.
“Sit down fercrissakes,” Pete said. “I haven’t even had breakfast yet, but does anybody want a drink?”
Nobody else had had breakfast yet either, but all wanted a drink. He didn’t bother to ask them their preferences, but poured out four rugged charges of brandy.
Bruce looked over at Rick and said, “What spins, Rocks?”
“Jesus,” the other complained. “Everybody in Island One knows who I am. You’d think I’d just been interviewed on the local Tri-Di news show.”
Pete handed the drinks around and told the newcomers the story he’d just had from Rick.
Bruce said glumly, after assimilating it, “You haven’t heard anything yet.” He described his interview with the Russian scientist.
The IABI man stared when the writer was through. He said, “Did you believe him?”
“Not then, but I think I do now, after what you’ve said.”
Pete finished his drink, stiff-wristed, and whacked the glass down on the desk. He muttered, “There’s over two hundred men in Security.” He looked at Cris Everett. “How’re they armed?”
The window washer scowled. “Sometimes they carry guns. You saw that sergeant who arrested us. But usually they only have billy clubs.”
Rick said, “Don’t be fooled. They’ve got guns, all right. A type like Al Moore would feel naked without a small arsenal near at hand.” He looked at Everett and repeated, “Who in the hell’s this?”
Bruce said, “Cris Everett. He’s a member of the Central Committee of the WITH-AW-DOH Club. It’s an underground outfit that wants to change the ways the Lagrange Five Corporation is doing things.” He added, with a touch of bitterness, “They thought they were secret, but it turns out Al Moore knows all about them.” His eyes widened suddenly and he snapped his fingers and turned to Everett. “Listen, how many members altogether do you have in the Club?”
“Why, about a thousand.”
“No more than that? I thought you people said that practically all the colonists and contract workers feel the same as you do.”
The smaller man was disgusted. “They do, but they don’t want to stick their necks out. They’re afraid they’ll wind up on Security’s malcontents list and their return Earthside might be held up. If things came to a head, at least nine out of ten would line up with us. Everybody but those finks who work in the hotel.”
Bruce said, an edge of excitement creeping into his voice, “Listen, do you Club members have any guns?”
Everett’s look was blank. “Guns?”
“Well…or any other kind of weapons.”
“Holy smog, Carter, what would we be doing with weapons up here?”
The other th
ree were also staring at Bruce now, obviously wondering what he was driving at.
He said urgently, “Couldn’t you people improvise some in your workshops?”
“Sure, given time. Given time, the boys in the manufacturing facility could whomp you up a tank, complete with cannon.”
“We don’t have time,” Rick said sarcastically. “I’ve got a sneaky suspicion that this is all going to be over in an hour or so, one way or the other.” He eyed Bruce. “What did you have in mind, Carter?”
Pete Kapitz had been frowning at the freelancer as well. “Yeah,” he said. He went over to the bar and got the bottle and poured them all another jolt.
Bruce shook his head. “We need manpower, but most of all we need weapons. If we could just seize the broadcasting station here in the hotel for as little as fifteen minutes, we could sound the alarm and broadcast both throughout Lagrange Five and the moon base and to Earth. The stink that’d raise might stop them from more bloodshed. Christ only knows what this conspiracy is all about, but once questions begin being asked, we’d soon find out.”
Rick said mildly, “Pete and I are heeled. Gyrojets, the most efficient handgun thus far developed.”
Bruce bug-eyed him. “You are?”
“Yeah,” Pete said.
The freelancer spun on Cris Everett. “You said that Adam Bloch wanted to see me. Let’s go. We can’t run the risk of just the four of us taking over that broadcasting station. We need more men.”
“Here we go again,” Rick said mildly, coming to his feet. He finished off his brandy and nonchalantly threw the glass into a corner.
Chapter Seventeen
“There are some pretty interesting engineering questions that have to be answered before you are going to be able to really design things in detail like (the) space colonies.”
—Russell Schweickart, Astronaut
*
Under Rick’s guidance, they left the hotel in the manner he had worked out, through the kitchens and to the alley behind the Hilton. The three newcomers to the island, all dressed in Earthside garments, went on ahead through the building, chatting away animatedly, while Cris Everett, in his role as a repairmen, followed about twenty feet behind, as though having no connection with the others. Their passage through the kitchen solicited only mild irritation from those working at breakfast.
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