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diff --git a/31094-h/31094-h.htm b/31094-h/31094-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6eebd47 --- /dev/null +++ b/31094-h/31094-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,4872 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" xml:lang="en" lang="en"> + <head> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html;charset=iso-8859-1" /> + <meta http-equiv="Content-Style-Type" content="text/css" /> + <title> + The Project Gutenberg eBook of Bear Trap, by Alan E. Nourse + </title> + <style type="text/css"> + + .trn {border: solid 1px; margin: 3em 15%; padding: 1em; text-align: justify;} + .blockquot {margin: 1em 10%;} + .dcap {text-transform: uppercase;} + p {margin-top: .75em; text-align: justify; margin-bottom: .75em;} + h1,h2 {font-weight: normal; line-height: 2em;} + body {margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .bk1 {margin: 1em auto 2em; border-top: solid 2px; border-bottom: solid 2px;} + .bk2 {float: left; width: 15em; margin: 1em 2em 1em 0;} + .pr1 {line-height: 1.5em; margin-top: 4em;} + hr {width: 45%; margin: 2em auto; visibility: hidden;} + .sp1 {margin-right: 2em;} + .rgt,h1,h2 {text-align: right;} + + </style> + </head> +<body> + + +<pre> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Bear Trap, by Alan Edward Nourse + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Bear Trap + +Author: Alan Edward Nourse + +Release Date: January 26, 2010 [EBook #31094] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEAR TRAP *** + + + + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + + + + + +</pre> + + +<div class="bk1"><p><small><i>Dr. Alan E. Nourse, who when last heard of was vacationing in Alaska—and +probably gathering material for SF or Mystery stories set against +this background—is the author of many mystery and science fiction +stories including MARTYR, the lead novel in our January 1957 issue.</i></small></p></div> + +<div class="bk2"><h1><b>bear<br /> +trap</b></h1> + +<h2><small><i>by ALAN E. NOURSE</i></small></h2> + +<p class="pr1"><big><b>The man's meteoric rise as a peacemaker in a nation tired +by the long years of war made the truth even more shocking.</b></big></p></div> + +<p><span class="dcap">The huge</span> troop transport +plane eased down +through the rainy drizzle +enshrouding New York International +Airport at about +five o'clock in the evening. +Tom Shandor glanced sourly +through the port at the wet +landing strip, saw the dim +landing lights reflected in the +steaming puddles. On an adjacent +field he could see the +rows and rows of jet fighters, +wings up in the foggy rain, +poised like ridiculous birds +in the darkness. With a sigh +he ripped the sheet of paper +from the small, battered +portable typewriter on his +lap, and zipped the machine +up in its slicker case.</p> + +<p>Across the troop hold the +soldiers were beginning to +stir, yawning, shifting their +packs, collecting their gear. +Occasionally they stared at +Shandor as if he were totally +alien to their midst, and he +shivered a little as he collected +the sheets of paper scattered +on the deck around him, +checked the date, 27 September, +1982, and rolled them up +to fit in the slim round mailing +container. Ten minutes +later he was shouldering his +way through the crowd of +khaki-clad men, scowling up +at the sky, his nondescript +fedora jammed down over his +eyes to keep out the rain, +slicker collar pulled up about +his ears. At the gangway he +stopped before a tired-looking +lieutenant and flashed the +small fluorescent card in his +palm. "Public Information +Board."</p> + +<p>The officer nodded wearily +and gave his coat and typewriter +a cursory check, then +motioned him on. He strode +across the wet field, scowling +at the fog, toward the +dimmed-out waiting rooms.</p> + +<p>He found a mailing chute, +and popped the mailing tube +down the slot as if he were +glad to be rid of it. Into the +speaker he said: "Special Delivery. +PIB business. It goes +to press tonight."</p> + +<p>The female voice from the +speaker said something, and +the red "clear" signal blinked. +Shandor slipped off his hat +and shook it, then stopped at +a coffee machine and extracted +a cup of steaming +stuff from the bottom after +trying the coin three times. +Finally he walked across the +room to an empty video +booth, and sank down into the +chair with an exhausted sigh. +Flipping a switch, he waited +several minutes for an operator +to appear. He gave her a +number, and then said, "Let's +scramble it, please."</p> + +<p>"Official?"</p> + +<p>He showed her the card, +and settled back, his whole +body tired. He was a tall man, +rather slender, with flat, +bland features punctuated +only by blond caret-shaped +eyebrows. His grey eyes were +heavy-lidded now, his mouth +an expressionless line as he +waited, sunk back into his +coat with a long-cultivated +air of lifeless boredom. He +watched the screen without +interest as it bleeped a time or +two, then shifted into the +familiar scrambled-image pattern. +After a moment he muttered +the Public Information +Board audio-code words, and +saw the screen even out into +the clear image of a large, +heavyset man at a desk.</p> + +<p>"Hart," said Shandor. "Story's +on its way. I just dropped +it from the Airport a minute +ago, with a rush tag on it. +You should have it for the +morning editions."</p> + +<p>The big man in the screen +blinked, and his heavy face +lit up. "The story on the +Rocket Project?"</p> + +<p>Shandor nodded. "The +whole scoop. I'm going home +now." He started his hand for +the cutoff switch.</p> + +<p>"Wait a minute—" Hart +picked up a pencil and fiddled +with it for a moment. +He glanced over his shoulder, +and his voice dropped a little. +"Is the line scrambled?"</p> + +<p>Shandor nodded.</p> + +<p>"What's the scoop, boy? +How's the Rocket Project coming?"</p> + +<p>Shandor grinned wryly. +"Read the report, daddy. Everything's +just ducky, of +course—it's all ready for +press. You've got the story, +why should I repeat it?"</p> + +<p>Hart scowled impatiently. +"No, no— I mean the <i>scoop</i>. +The real stuff. How's the +Project going?"</p> + +<p>"Not so hot." Shandor's +face was weary. "Material +cutoff is holding them up +something awful. Among other +things. The sabotage has +really fouled up the west +coast trains, and shipments +haven't been coming through +on schedule. You know—they +ask for one thing, and +get the wrong weight, or their +supplier is out of material, or +something goes wrong. And +there's personnel trouble, too—too +much direction and too +little work. It's beginning to +look as if they'll never get +going. And now it looks like +there's going to be another +administration shakeup, and +you know what that means—"</p> + +<p>Hart nodded thoughtfully. +"They'd better get hopping," +he muttered. "The conference +in Berlin is on the skids—it +could be hours now." He +looked up. "But you got the +story rigged all right?"</p> + +<p>Shandor's face flattened in +distaste. "Sure, sure. You +know me, Hart. Anything to +keep the people happy. Everything's +running as smooth +as satin, work going fine, expect +a test run in a month, +and we should be on the moon +in half a year, more or less, +maybe, we hope—the usual +swill. I'll be in to work out +the war stories in the morning. +Right now I'm for bed."</p> + +<p>He snapped off the video +before Hart could interrupt, +and started for the door. The +rain hit him, as he stepped +out, with a wave of cold wet +depression, but a cab slid up +to the curb before him and he +stepped in. Sinking back he +tried to relax, to get his stomach +to stop complaining, but +he couldn't fight the feeling +of almost physical illness +sweeping over him. He closed +his eyes and sank back, trying +to drive the ever-plaguing +thoughts from his mind, trying +to focus on something +pleasant, almost hoping that +his long-starved conscience +might give a final gasp or +two and die altogether. But +deep in his mind he knew +that his screaming conscience +was almost the only thing that +held him together.</p> + +<p>Lies, he thought to himself +bitterly. White lies, black +lies, whoppers—you could +take your choice. There +should be a flaming neon sign +flashing across the sky, telling +all people: "Public Information +Board, Fabrication +Corporation, fabricating of +all lies neatly and expeditiously +done." He squirmed, +feeling the rebellion grow in +his mind. Propaganda, they +called it. A nice word, such +a very handy word, covering +a multitude of seething pots. +PIB was the grand clearing +house, the last censor of censors, +and he, Tom Shandor, +was the Chief Fabricator and +Purveyor of Lies.</p> + +<p>He shook his head, trying +to get a breath of clean air +in the damp cab. Sometimes +he wondered where it was +leading, where it would finally +end up, what would happen +if the people ever really +learned, or ever listened to +the clever ones who tried to +sneak the truth into print +somewhere. But people +couldn't be told the truth, +they had to be coddled, urged, +pushed along. They had to +be kept somehow happy, +somehow hopeful, they had to +be kept whipped up to fever +pitch, because the long, long +years of war and near war had +exhausted them, wearied them +beyond natural resiliency. +No, they had to be spiked, +urged and goaded—what +would happen if they +learned?</p> + +<p>He sighed. No one, it +seemed, could do it as well as +he. No one could take a story +of bitter diplomatic fighting +in Berlin and simmer it down +to a public-palatable "peaceful +and progressive meeting;" no +one could quite so skillfully +reduce the bloody fighting in +India to a mild "enemy losses +topping American losses +twenty to one, and our boys +are fighting staunchly, bravely,"— No +one could write out +the lies quite so neatly, so +smoothly as Tom Shandor—</p> + +<p>The cab swung in to his +house, and he stepped out, +tipped the driver, and walked +up the walk, eager for the +warm dry room. Coffee +helped sometimes when he +felt this way, but other things +helped even more. He didn't +even take his coat off before +mixing and downing a stiff +rye-and-ginger, and he was +almost forgetting his unhappy +conscience by the time the +video began blinking.</p> + +<p>He flipped the receiver +switch and sat down groggily, +blinked at John Hart's +heavy face as it materialized +on the screen. Hart's eyes +were wide, his voice tight and +nervous as he leaned forward. +"You'd better get into the office +pronto," he said, his eyes +bright. "You've <i>really</i> got a +story to work on now—"</p> + +<p>Shandor blinked. "The +War—"</p> + +<p>Hart took a deep breath. +"Worse," he said. "David Ingersoll +is dead."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Tom Shandor shouldered +his way through the crowd of +men in the anteroom, and +went into the inner office. +Closing the door behind him +coolly, he faced the man at +the desk, and threw a thumb +over his shoulder. "Who're +the goons?" he growled. +"You haven't released a story +yet—?"</p> + +<p>John Hart sighed, his pinkish +face drawn. "The press. I +don't know how they got the +word—there hasn't been a +word released, but—" He +shrugged and motioned Shandor +to a seat. "You know how +it goes."</p> + +<p>Shandor sat down, his face +blank, eyeing the Information +chief woodenly. The room +was silent for a moment, +a tense, anticipatory silence. +Then Hart said: "The Rocket +story was great, Tommy. A +real writing job. You've got +the touch, when it comes to a +ticklish news release—"</p> + +<p>Shandor allowed an expression +of distaste to cross his +face. He looked at the chubby +man across the desk and felt +the distaste deepen and crystallize. +John Hart's face was +round, with little lines going +up from the eyes, an almost +grotesque, burlesque-comic +face that belied the icy practical +nature of the man behind +it. A thoroughly distasteful +face, Shandor thought. Finally +he said, "The story, John. +On Ingersoll. Let's have it, +straight out."</p> + +<p>Hart shrugged his stocky +shoulders, spreading his +hands. "Ingersoll's dead," he +said. "That's all there is to it. +He's stone-cold dead."</p> + +<p>"But he can't be dead!" +roared Shandor, his face +flushed. "We just can't <i>afford</i> +to have him dead—"</p> + +<p>Hart looked up wearily. +"Look, I didn't kill him. He +went home from the White +House this evening, apparently +sound enough, after a long, +stiff, nasty conference with +the President. Ingersoll wanted +to go to Berlin and call a +showdown at the International +conference there, and he had +a policy brawl with the President, +and the President +wouldn't let him go, sent an +undersecretary instead, and +threatened to kick Ingersoll +out of the cabinet unless he +quieted down. Ingersoll got +home at 4:30, collapsed at +5:00, and he was dead before +the doctor arrived. Cerebral +hemorrhage, pretty straightforward. +Ingersoll's been killing +himself for years—he +knew it, and everyone else in +Washington knew it. It was +bound to happen sooner or +later."</p> + +<p>"He was trying to prevent a +war," said Shandor dully, +"and he was all by himself. +Nobody else wanted to stop +it, nobody that mattered, at +any rate. Only the people +didn't want war, and who ever +listens to them? Ingersoll got +the people behind him, so +they gave him a couple of Nobel +Peace Prizes, and made +him Secretary of State, and +then cut his throat every +time he tried to do anything. +No wonder he's dead—"</p> + +<p>Hart shrugged again, eloquently +indifferent. "So he +was a nice guy, he wanted to +prevent a war. As far as I'm +concerned, he was a pain in +the neck, the way he was forever +jumping down Information's +throat, but he's dead +now, he isn't around any +more—" His eyes narrowed +sharply. "The important +thing, Tommy, is that the +people won't like it that he's +dead. They trusted him. He's +been the people's Golden Boy, +their last-ditch hope for +peace. If they think their last +chance is gone with his death, +they're going to be mad. They +won't like it, and there'll be +hell to pay—"</p> + +<p>Shandor lit a smoke with +trembling fingers, his eyes +smouldering. "So the people +have to be eased out of the +picture," he said flatly. +"They've got to get the story +so they won't be so angry—"</p> + +<p>Hart nodded, grinning. +"They've got to have a real +story, Tommy. Big, blown up, +what a great guy he was, defender +of the peace, greatest, +most influential man America +has turned out since the half-century—you +know what they +lap up, the usual garbage, +only on a slightly higher +plane. They've got to think +that he's really saved them, +that he's turned over the +reins to other hands just as +trustworthy as his—you can +give the president a big hand +there—they've got to think +his work is the basis of our +present foreign policy—can't +you see the implications? It's +got to be spread on with a +trowel, laid on skillfully—"</p> + +<p>Shandor's face flushed deep +red, and he ground the stub +of his smoke out viciously. +"I'm sick of this stuff, Hart," +he exploded. "I'm sick of you, +and I'm sick of this whole +rotten setup, this business of +writing reams and reams of +lies just to keep things under +control. Ingersoll was a great +man, a <i>really</i> great man, and +he was <i>wasted</i>, thrown away. +He worked to make peace, and +he got laughed at. He hasn't +done a thing—because he +couldn't. Everything he has +tried has been useless, wasted. +<i>That's</i> the truth—why not tell +that to the people?"</p> + +<p>Hart stared. "Get hold of +yourself," he snapped. "You +know your job. There's a +story to write. The life of +David Ingersoll. It has to go +down smooth." His dark eyes +shifted to his hands, and back +sharply to Shandor. "A propagandist +has to write it, +Tommy—an ace propagandist. +You're the only one I know +that could do the job."</p> + +<p>"Not me," said Shandor +flatly, standing up. "Count +me out. I'm through with +this, as of now. Get yourself +some other whipping boy. Ingersoll +was one man the people +could trust. And he was +one man I could never face. +I'm not good enough for him +to spit on, and I'm not going +to sell him down the river +now that he's dead."</p> + +<p>With a little sigh John +Hart reached into the desk. +"That's very odd," he said +softly. "Because Ingersoll left +a message for you—"</p> + +<p>Shandor snapped about, +eyes wide. "Message—?"</p> + +<p>The chubby man handed +him a small envelope. "Apparently +he wrote that a long +time ago. Told his daughter +to send it to Public Information +Board immediately in +event of his death. Read it."</p> + +<p>Shandor unfolded the thin +paper, and blinked unbelieving:</p> + +<div class="blockquot"><p><i>In event of my death during +the next few months, a +certain amount of biographical +writing will be inevitable. +It is my express wish that +this writing, in whatever form +it may take, be done by Mr. +Thomas L. Shandor, staff +writer of the Federal Public +Information Board.</i></p> + +<p><i>I believe that man alone is +qualified to handle this assignment.</i></p> + +<p class="rgt"><i><span class="sp1">(Signed) David P. Ingersoll</span><br /> +Secretary of State,<br /> +United States of America.</i></p> + +<p><i>4 June, 1981</i></p></div> + +<p>Shandor read the message +a second time, then folded it +carefully and placed it in his +pocket, his forehead creased. +"I suppose you want the story +to be big," he said dully.</p> + +<p>Hart's eyes gleamed a moment +of triumph. "As big as +you can make it," he said eagerly. +"Don't spare time or effort, +Tommy. You'll be relieved +of all assignments until +you have it done—if you'll +take it."</p> + +<p>"Oh, yes," said Shandor +softly. "I'll take it."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>He landed the small PIB +'copter on an airstrip in the +outskirts of Georgetown, haggled +with Security officials +for a few moments, and +grabbed an old weatherbeaten +cab, giving the address of the +Ingersoll estate as he settled +back in the cushions. A small +radio was set inside the door; +he snapped it on, fiddled with +the dial until he found a PIB +news report. And as he listened +he felt his heart sink +lower and lower, and the old +familiar feeling of dirtiness +swept over him, the feeling +of being a part in an enormous, +overpowering scheme of +corruption and degradation. +The Berlin conference was +reaching a common meeting +ground, the report said, with +Russian, Chinese, and American +officials making the first +real progress in the week of +talks. Hope rising for an early +armistice on the Indian +front. Suddenly he hunched +forward, blinking in surprise +as the announcer continued +the broadcast: "The Secretary +of State, David Ingersoll, +was stricken with a slight +head cold this evening on the +eve of his departure for the +Berlin Conference, and was +advised to postpone the trip +temporarily. John Harris Darby, +first undersecretary, was +dispatched in his place. Mr. +Ingersoll expressed confidence +that Mr. Darby would +be able to handle the talks as +well as himself, in view of the +optimistic trend in Berlin +last night—"</p> + +<p>Shandor snapped the radio +off viciously, a roar of disgust +rising in his throat, cut +off just in time. Lies, lies, +lies. Some people <i>knew</i> they +were lies—what could they +really think? People like David +Ingersoll's wife—</p> + +<p>Carefully he reined in his +thoughts, channelled them. He +had called the Ingersoll home +the night before, announcing +his arrival this morning—</p> + +<p>The taxi ground up a gravelled +driveway, stopped before +an Army jeep at the iron-grilled +gateway. A Security +Officer flipped a cigarette +onto the ground, shaking his +head. "Can't go in, Secretary's +orders."</p> + +<p>Shandor stepped from the +cab, briefcase under his arm. +He showed his card, scowled +when the officer continued +shaking his head. "Orders say +<i>nobody</i>—"</p> + +<p>"Look, blockhead," Shandor +grated. "If you want to hang +by your toes, I can put +through a special check-line to +Washington to confirm my +appointment here. I'll also recommend +you for the salt +mines."</p> + +<p>The officer growled, "Wise +guy," and shuffled into the +guard shack. Minutes later he +appeared again, jerked his +thumb toward the estate. +"Take off," he said. "See that +you check here at the gate +before you leave."</p> + +<p>He was admitted to the huge +house by a stone-faced butler, +who led him through a maze +of corridors into a huge dining +room. Morning sunlight +gleamed through a glassed-in +wall, and Shandor stopped at +the door, almost speechless.</p> + +<p>He knew he'd seen the girl +somewhere. At one of the +Washington parties, or in the +newspapers. Her face was unmistakable; +it was the sort of +face that a man never forgets +once he glimpses it—thin, +puckish, with wide-set grey +eyes that seemed both somber +and secretly amused, a full, +sensitive mouth, and blonde +hair, exceedingly fine, +cropped close about her ears. +She was eating her breakfast, +a rolled up newspaper by her +plate, and as she looked up, +her eyes were not warm. She +just stared at Shandor angrily +for a moment, then set down +her coffee cup and threw the +paper to the floor with a slam. +"You're Shandor, I suppose."</p> + +<p>Shandor looked at the paper, +then back at her. "Yes, +I'm Tom Shandor. But you're +not Mrs. Ingersoll—"</p> + +<p>"A profound observation. +Mother isn't interested in seeing +anyone this morning, particularly +you." She motioned +to a chair. "You can talk to +me if you want to."</p> + +<p>Shandor sank down in the +proffered seat, struggling to +readjust his thinking. "Well," +he said finally. "I—I wasn't +expecting you—" he broke +into a grin—"but I should +think you could help. You +know what I'm trying to do—I +mean, about your father. I +want to write a story, and +the logical place to start +would be with his family—"</p> + +<p>The girl blinked wide eyes +innocently. "Why don't you +start with the newspaper +files?" she asked, her voice +silky. "You'd find all sorts +of information about daddy +there. Pages and pages—"</p> + +<p>"No, no— I don't want that +kind of information. You're +his daughter, Miss Ingersoll, +you could tell me about him +as a man. Something about +his personal life, what sort of +man he was—"</p> + +<p>She shrugged indifferently, +buttered a piece of toast, as +Shandor felt most acutely the +pangs of his own missed +breakfast. "He got up at seven +every morning," she said. +"He brushed his teeth and ate +breakfast. At nine o'clock the +State Department called for +him—"</p> + +<p>Shandor shook his head unhappily. +"No, no, that's not +what I mean."</p> + +<p>"Then perhaps you'd tell +me precisely what you <i>do</i> +mean?" Her voice was clipped +and hard.</p> + +<p>Shandor sighed in exasperation. +"The personal angle. +His likes and dislikes, how he +came to formulate his views, +his relationship with his wife, +with you—"</p> + +<p>"He was a kind and loving +father," she said, her voice +mocking. "He loved to read, +he loved music—oh, yes, put +that down, he was a <i>great</i> lover +of music. His wife was the +apple of his eye, and he tried, +for all the duties of his position, +to provide us with a happy +home life—"</p> + +<p>"Miss Ingersoll."</p> + +<p>She stopped in mid-sentence, +her grey eyes veiled, +and shook her head slightly. +"That's not what you want, +either?"</p> + +<p>Shandor stood up and +walked to a window, looking +out over the wide veranda. +Carefully he snubbed his cigarette +in an ashtray, then +turned sharply to the girl. +"Look. If you want to play +games, I can play games too. +Either you're going to help +me, or you're not—it's up to +you. But you forget one +thing. I'm a propagandist. I +might say I'm a very expert +propagandist. I can tell a true +story from a false one. You +won't get anywhere lying to +me, or evading me, and if you +choose to try, we can call it +off right now. You know exactly +the type of information +I need from you. Your father +was a great man, and he rates +a fair shake in the write-ups. +I'm asking you to help me."</p> + +<p>Her lips formed a sneer. +"And <i>you're</i> going to give him +a fair shake, I'm supposed to +believe." She pointed to the +newspaper. "With garbage +like that? Head cold!" Her +face flushed, and she turned +her back angrily. "I know +your writing, Mr. Shandor. +I've been exposed to it for +years. You've never written an +honest, true story in your life, +but you always want the +truth to start with, don't +you? I'm to give you the +truth, and let you do what +you want with it, is that the +idea? No dice, Mr. Shandor. +And you even have the gall +to brag about it!"</p> + +<p>Shandor flushed angrily. +"You're not being fair. This +story is going to press +straight and true, every word +of it. This is one story that +won't be altered."</p> + +<p>And then she was laughing, +choking, holding her sides, as +the tears streamed down her +cheeks. Shandor watched her, +reddening, anger growing up +to choke him. "I'm not joking," +he snapped. "I'm breaking +with the routine, do you +understand? I'm through +with the lies now, I'm writing +this one straight."</p> + +<p>She wiped her eyes and +looked at him, bitter lines +under her smile. "You couldn't +do it," she said, still laughing. +"You're a fool to think so. +You could write it, and you'd +be out of a job so fast you +wouldn't know what hit you. +But you'd never get it into +print. And you know it. +You'd never even get the story +to the inside offices."</p> + +<p>Shandor stared at her. +"That's what you think," he +said slowly. "This story will +get to the press if it kills +me."</p> + +<p>The girl looked up at him, +eyes wide, incredulous. "You +<i>mean</i> that, don't you?"</p> + +<p>"I never meant anything +more in my life."</p> + +<p>She looked at him, wonderingly, +motioned him to the +table, a faraway look in her +eyes. "Have some coffee," she +said, and then turned to him, +her eyes wide with excitement. +The sneer was gone +from her face, the coldness +and hostility, and her eyes +were pleading. "If there were +some way to do it, if you really +meant what you said, if +you'd really <i>do</i> it—give people +a true story—"</p> + +<p>Shandor's voice was low. "I +told you, I'm sick of this mill. +There's something wrong with +this country, something wrong +with the world. There's a rottenness +in it, and your father +was fighting to cut out the +rottenness. This story is going +to be straight, and it's +going to be printed if I get +shot for treason. And it could +split things wide open at the +seams."</p> + +<p>She sat down at the table. +Her lower lip trembled, and +her voice was tense with excitement. +"Let's get out of +here," she said. "Let's go +someplace where we can +talk—"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>They found a quiet place +off the business section in +Washington, one of the newer +places with the small +closed booths, catering to +people weary of eavesdropping +and overheard conversations. +Shandor ordered beers, +then lit a smoke and leaned +back facing Ann Ingersoll. It +occurred to him that she was +exceptionally lovely, but he +was almost frightened by the +look on her face, the suppressed +excitement, the cold, +bitter lines about her mouth. +Incongruously, the thought +crossed his mind that he'd +hate to have this woman +against him. She looked as +though she would be capable +of more than he'd care to tangle +with. For all her lovely +face there was an edge of thin +ice to her smile, a razor-sharp, +dangerous quality that made +him curiously uncomfortable. +But now she was nervous, +withdrawing a cigarette from +his pack with trembling fingers, +fumbling with his lighter +until he struck a match +for her. "Now," he said. "Why +the secrecy?"</p> + +<p>She glanced at the closed +door to the booth. "Mother +would kill me if she knew I +was helping you. She hates +you, and she hates the Public +Information Board. I think +dad hated you, too."</p> + +<p>Shandor took the folded letter +from his pocket. "Then +what do you think of this?" +he asked softly. "Doesn't this +strike you a little odd?"</p> + +<p>She read Ingersoll's letter +carefully, then looked up at +Tom, her eyes wide with surprise. +"So this is what that +note was. This doesn't wash, +Tom."</p> + +<p>"You're telling me it doesn't +wash. Notice the wording. 'I +believe that man alone is +qualified to handle this assignment.' +Why me? And of +all things, why me <i>alone</i>? He +knew my job, and he fought +me and the PIB every step of +his career. Why a note like +this?"</p> + +<p>She looked up at him. "Do +you have any idea?"</p> + +<p>"Sure, I've got an idea. A +crazy one, but an idea. I don't +think he wanted me because of +the writing. I think he wanted +me because I'm a propagandist."</p> + +<p>She scowled. "It still doesn't +wash. There are lots of propagandists—and +why would he want a propagandist?"</p> + +<p>Shandor's eyes narrowed. +"Let's let it ride for a moment. +How about his files?"</p> + +<p>"In his office in the State +Department."</p> + +<p>"He didn't keep anything +personal at home?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes grew wide. "Oh, +no, he wouldn't have dared. +Not the sort of work he was +doing. With his files under +lock and key in the State Department +nothing could be +touched without his knowledge, +but at home anybody +might have walked in."</p> + +<p>"Of course. How about +enemies? Did he have any particular +enemies?"</p> + +<p>She laughed humorlessly. +"Name anybody in the current +administration. I think he had +more enemies than anybody +else in the cabinet." Her +mouth turned down bitterly. +"He was a stumbling block. +He got in people's way, and +they hated him for it. They +killed him for it."</p> + +<p>Shandor's eyes widened. +"You mean you think he was +murdered?"</p> + +<p>"Oh, no, nothing so crude. +They didn't have to be crude. +They just let him butt his +head against a stone wall. +Everything he tried was +blocked, or else it didn't lead +anywhere. Like this Berlin +Conference. It's a powder keg. +Dad gambled everything on +going there, forcing the delegates +to face facts, to really +put their cards on the table. +Ever since the United Nations +fell apart in '72 dad had been +trying to get America and +Russia to sit at the same table. +But the President cut him +out at the last minute. It was +planned that way, to let him +get up to the very brink of it, +and then slap him down hard. +They did it all along. This +was just the last he could +take."</p> + +<p>Shandor was silent for a +moment. "Any particular +thorns in his side?"</p> + +<p>Ann shrugged. "Munitions +people, mostly. Dartmouth +Bearing had a pressure lobby +that was trying to throw him +out of the cabinet. The President +sided with them, but he +didn't dare do it for fear the +people would squawk. He was +planning to blame the failure +of the Berlin Conference on +dad and get him ousted that +way."</p> + +<p>Shandor stared. "But if that +conference fails, <i>we're in full-scale +war</i>!"</p> + +<p>"Of course. That's the +whole point." She scowled at +her glass, blinking back tears. +"Dad could have stopped it, +but they wouldn't let him. <i>It +killed him</i>, Tom!"</p> + +<p>Shandor watched the smoke +curling up from his cigarette. +"Look," he said. "I've got an +idea, and it's going to take +some fast work. That conference +could blow up any minute, +and then I think we're +going to be in real trouble. I +want you to go to your father's +office and get the contents +of his personal file. Not +the business files, his personal +files. Put them in a briefcase +and subway-express +them to your home. If you +have any trouble, have them +check with PIB—we have full +authority, and I'm it right +now. I'll call them and give +them the word. Then meet me +here again, with the files, at +7:30 this evening."</p> + +<p>She looked up, her eyes +wide. "What—what are you +going to do?"</p> + +<p>Shandor snubbed out his +smoke, his eyes bright. "I've +got an idea that we may be +onto something—just something +I want to check. But I +think if we work it right, we +can lay these boys that fought +your father out by the toes—"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The Library of Congress +had been moved when the +threat of bombing in Washington +had become acute. +Shandor took a cab to the +Georgetown airstrip, checked +the fuel in the 'copter. Ten +minutes later he started the +motor, and headed upwind +into the haze over the hills. +In less than half an hour he +settled to the Library landing +field in western Maryland, +and strode across to the rear +entrance.</p> + +<p>The electronic cross-index +had been the last improvement +in the Library since +the war with China had started +in 1958. Shandor found a +reading booth in one of the +alcoves on the second floor, +and plugged in the index. +The cold, metallic voice of +the automatic chirped twice +and said, "Your reference, +pleeyuz."</p> + +<p>Shandor thought a moment. +"Give me your newspaper +files on David Ingersoll, Secretary +of State."</p> + +<p>"Through which dates, +pleeyuz."</p> + +<p>"Start with the earliest reference, +and carry through to +current." The speaker burped, +and he sat back, waiting. A +small grate in the panel before +him popped open, and a small +spool plopped out onto a +spindle. Another followed, +and another. He turned to the +reader, and reeled the first +spool into the intake slot. +The light snapped on, and he +began reading.</p> + +<p>Spools continued to plop +down. He read for several +hours, taking a dozen pages +of notes. The references commenced +in June, 1961, with a +small notice that David Ingersoll, +Republican from New +Jersey, had been nominated to +run for state senator. Before +that date, nothing. Shandor +scowled, searching for some +item predating that one. He +found nothing.</p> + +<p>Scratching his head, he +continued reading, outlining +chronologically. Ingersoll's +election to state senate, then +to United States Senate. His +rise to national prominence as +economist for the post-war +Administrator of President +Drayton in 1966. His meteoric +rise as a peacemaker in a nation +tired from endless dreary +years of fighting in China +and India. His tremendous +popularity as he tried to stall +the re-intensifying cold-war +with Russia. The first Nobel +Peace Prize, in 1969, for the +ill-fated Ingersoll Plan for +World Sovereignty. Pages +and pages and pages of newsprint. +Shandor growled angrily, +surveying the pile of +notes with a sinking feeling +of incredulity. The articles, +the writing, the tone—it was +all too familiar. Carefully he +checked the newspaper sources. +Some of the dispatches +were Associated Press; many +came direct desk from Public +Information Board in New +York; two other networks +sponsored some of the wordage. +But the tone was all the +same.</p> + +<p>Finally, disgusted, Tom +stuffed the notes into his +briefcase, and flipped down +the librarian lever. "Sources, +please."</p> + +<p>A light blinked, and in a +moment a buzzer sounded at +his elbow. A female voice, +quite human, spoke as he +lifted the receiver. "Can I +help you on sources?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I've been reading the +newspaper files on David Ingersoll. +I'd like the by-lines +on this copy."</p> + +<p>There was a moment of silence. +"Which dates, please?"</p> + +<p>Shandor read off his list, +giving dates. The silence continued +for several minutes as +he waited impatiently. He was +about to hang up and leave +when the voice spoke up +again. "I'm sorry, sir. Most of +that material has no by-line. +Except for one or two items +it's all staff-written."</p> + +<p>"By whom?"</p> + +<p>"I'm sorry, no source is +available. Perhaps the PIB +offices could help you—"</p> + +<p>"All right, ring them for +me, please." He waited another +five minutes, saw the PIB +cross-index clerk appear on +the video screen. "Hello, Mr. +Shandor. Can I help you?"</p> + +<p>"I'm trying to trace down +the names of the Associated +Press and PIB writers who +covered stories on David Ingersoll +over a period from +June 1961 to the present +date—"</p> + +<p>The girl disappeared for +several moments. When she +reappeared, her face was puzzled. +"Why, Mr. Shandor, +you've been doing the work on +Ingersoll from August, 1978 +to Sept. 1982. We haven't +closed the files on this last +month yet—"</p> + +<p>He scowled in annoyance. +"Yes, yes, I know that. I want +the writers before I came."</p> + +<p>The clerk paused. "Until +you started your work there +was no definite assignment. +The information just isn't +here. But the man you replaced +in PIB was named +Frank Mariel."</p> + +<p>Shandor turned the name +over in his mind, decided that +it was familiar, but that he +couldn't quite place it. +"What's this man doing +now?"</p> + +<p>The girl shrugged. "I don't +know, just now, and have no +sources. But according to our +files he left Public Information +Board to go to work in +some capacity for Dartmouth +Bearing Corporation."</p> + +<p>Shandor flipped the switch, +and settled back in the reading +chair. Once again he fingered +through his notes, +frowning, a doubt gnawing +through his mind into certainty. +He took up a dozen of the +stories, analyzed them carefully, +word for word, sentence +by sentence. Then he sat +back, his body tired, eyes +closed in concentration, an +incredible idea twisting and +writhing and solidifying in +his mind.</p> + +<p>It takes one to catch one. +That was his job—telling lies. +Writing stories that weren't +true, and making them believable. +Making people think +one thing when the truth was +something else. It wasn't so +strange that he could detect +exactly the same sort of +thing when he ran into it. +He thought it through again +and again, and every time he +came up with the same answer. +There was no doubt.</p> + +<p>Reading the newspaper files +had accomplished only one +thing. He had spent the afternoon +reading a voluminous, +neat, smoothly written, extremely +convincing batch of +bold-faced lies. Lies about +David Ingersoll. Somewhere, +at the bottom of those lies +was a shred or two of truth, +a shred hard to analyze, impossible +to segregate from the +garbage surrounding it. But +somebody had written the lies. +That meant that somebody +knew the truths behind them.</p> + +<p>Suddenly he galvanized into +action. The video blinked protestingly +at his urgent summons, +and the Washington visiphone +operator answered. +"Somewhere in those listings +of yours," Shandor said, +"you've got a man named +Frank Mariel. I want his +number."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>He reached the downtown +restaurant half an hour early, +and ducked into a nearby visiphone +station to ring Hart. +The PIB director's chubby +face materialized on the +screen after a moment's confusion, +and Shandor said: +"John—what are your plans +for releasing the Ingersoll +story? The morning papers +left him with a slight head +cold, if I remember right—" +Try as he would, he couldn't +conceal the edge of sarcasm +in his voice.</p> + +<p>Hart scowled. "How's the +biography coming?"</p> + +<p>"The biography's coming +along fine. I want to know +what kind of quicksand I'm +wading through, that's all."</p> + +<p>Hart shrugged and spread +his hands. "We can't break the +story proper until you're +ready with your buffer story. +Current plans say that he +gets pneumonia tomorrow, +and goes to Walter Reed tomorrow +night. We're giving it +as little emphasis as possible, +running the Berlin Conference +stories for right-hand +column stuff. That'll give +you all day tomorrow and half +the next day for the preliminary +stories on his death. +Okay?"</p> + +<p>"That's not enough time." +Shandor's voice was tight.</p> + +<p>"It's enough for a buffer-release." +Hart scowled at him, +his round face red and annoyed. +"Look, Tom, you get +that story in, and never mind +what you like or don't like. +This is dynamite you're playing +with—the Conference is +going to be on the rocks in a +matter of hours—that's +straight from the Undersecretary—and +on top of it all, +there's trouble down in Arizona—"</p> + +<p>Shandor's eyes widened. +"The Rocket Project—?"</p> + +<p>Hart's mouth twisted. "Sabotage. +They picked up a +whole ring that's been operating +for over a year. Caught +them red-handed, but not before +they burnt out half a +calculator wing. They'll have +to move in new machines now +before they can go on—set +the Project back another week, +and that could lose the war +for us right there. Now <i>get +that story in</i>." He snapped +the switch down, leaving +Shandor blinking at the darkened +screen.</p> + +<p>Ten minutes later Ann Ingersoll +joined him in the restaurant +booth. She was wearing +a chic white linen outfit, +with her hair fresh, like a +blonde halo around her head +in the fading evening light. +Her freshness contrasted painfully +with Tom's curling collar +and dirty tie, and he suddenly +wished he'd picked up a +shave. He looked up and +grunted when he saw the fat +briefcase under the girl's arm, +and she dropped it on the table +between them and sank +down opposite him, studying +his face. "The reading didn't +go so well," she said.</p> + +<p>"The reading went lousy," +he admitted sheepishly. "This +the personal file?"</p> + +<p>She nodded shortly and lit +a cigarette. "The works. They +didn't even bother me. But I +can't see why all the precaution— I +mean, the express and +all that—"</p> + +<p>Shandor looked at her +sharply. "If what you said +this morning was true, that +file is a gold mine, for us, +but more particularly, for +your father's enemies. I'll go +over it closely when I get out +of here. Meantime, there are +one or two other things I want +to talk over with you."</p> + +<p>She settled herself, and +grinned. "Okay, boss. Fire +away."</p> + +<p>He took a deep breath, and +tiredness lined his face. "First +off: what did your father do +before he went into politics?"</p> + +<p>Her eyes widened, and she +arrested the cigarette halfway +to her mouth, put it back on +the ashtray, with a puzzled +frown on her face. "That's +funny," she said softly. "I +thought I knew, but I guess +I don't. He was an industrialist—way, +far back, years +and years ago, when I was +just a little brat—and then +we got into the war with China, +and I don't know what he +did. He was always making +business trips; I can remember +going to the airport with +mother to meet him, but I +don't know what he did. +Mother always avoided talking +about him, and I never +got to see him enough to +talk—"</p> + +<p>Shandor sat forward, his +eyes bright. "Did he ever entertain +any business friends +during that time—any that +you can remember?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head. "I +can't remember. Seems to me a +man or two came home with +him on a couple of occasions, +but I don't know who. I don't +remember much before the +night he came home and said +he was going to run for Congress. +Then there were people +galore—have been ever since."</p> + +<p>"And what about his work +at the end of the China war? +After he was elected, while he +was doing all that work to +try to smooth things out with +Russia—can you remember +him saying anything, to you, +or to your mother, about +<i>what</i> he was doing, and how?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head again. +"Oh, yes, he'd talk—he and +mother would talk—sometimes +argue. I had the feeling +that things weren't too well +with mother and dad many +times. But I can't remember +anything specific, except that +he used to say over and over +how he hated the thought of +another war. He was afraid it +was going to come—"</p> + +<p>Shandor looked up sharply. +"But he hated it—"</p> + +<p>"Yes." Her eyes widened. +"Oh, yes, he hated it. Dad +was a good man, Tom. He believed +with all his heart that +the people of the world wanted +peace, and that they were +being dragged to war because +they couldn't find any purpose +to keep them from it. He +believed that if the people of +the world had a cause, a purpose, +a driving force, that +there wouldn't be any more +wars. Some men fought him +for preaching peace, but he +wouldn't be swayed. Especially +he hated the pure-profit +lobbies, the patriotic drum-beaters +who stood to get rich +in a war. But dad had to die, +and there aren't many men +like him left now, I guess."</p> + +<p>"I know." Shandor fell silent, +stirring his coffee glumly. +"Tell me," he said, "did +your father have anything to +do with a man named Mariel?"</p> + +<p>Ann's eyes narrowed. +"Frank Mariel? He was the +newspaper man. Yes, dad had +plenty to do with him. He +hated dad's guts, because dad +fought his writing so much. +Mariel was one of the 'fight +now and get rich' school +that were continually plaguing +dad."</p> + +<p>"Would you say that they +were enemies?"</p> + +<p>She bit her lip, wrinkling +her brow in thought. "Not at +first. More like a big dog with +a little flea, at first. Mariel +pestered dad, and dad tried +to scratch him away. But +Mariel got into PIB, and +then I suppose you could call +them enemies—"</p> + +<p>Shandor sat back, frowning, +his face dark with fatigue. +He stared at the table +top for a long moment, and +when he looked up at the girl +his eyes were troubled. +"There's something wrong +with this," he said softly. "I +can't quite make it out, but it +just doesn't look right. Those +newspaper stories I read—pure +bushwa, from beginning +to end. I'm dead certain of +it. And yet—" he paused, +searching for words. "Look. +It's like I'm looking at a jigsaw +puzzle that <i>looks</i> like it's +all completed and lying out +on the table. But there's +something that tells me I'm +being foxed, that it isn't a +complete puzzle at all, just +an illusion, yet somehow I +can't even tell for sure where +pieces are missing—"</p> + +<p>The girl leaned over the +table, her grey eyes deep with +concern. "Tom," she said, almost +in a whisper. "Suppose +there <i>is</i> something, Tom. +Something big, what's it going +to do to <i>you</i>, Tom? You +can't fight anything as powerful +as PIB, and these men +that hated dad could break +you."</p> + +<p>Tom grinned tiredly, his +eyes far away. "I know," he +said softly. "But a man can +only swallow so much. Somewhere, +I guess, I've still got a +conscience—it's a nuisance, +but it's still there." He looked +closely at the lovely girl +across from him. "Maybe it's +just that I'm tired of being +sick of myself. I'd like to <i>like</i> +myself for a change. I haven't +liked myself for years." He +looked straight at her, his +voice very small in the still +booth. "I'd like some other +people to like me, too. So I've +got to keep going—"</p> + +<p>Her hand was in his, then, +grasping his fingers tightly, +and her voice was trembling. +"I didn't think there was anybody +left like that," she said. +"Tom, you aren't by yourself—remember +that. No matter +what happens, I'm with you +all the way. I'm—I'm afraid, +but I'm with you."</p> + +<p>He looked up at her then, +and his voice was tight. "Listen, +Ann. Your father planned +to go to Berlin before he died. +What was he going to <i>do</i> if +he went to the Berlin Conference?"</p> + +<p>She shrugged helplessly. +"The usual diplomatic fol-de-rol, +I suppose. He always—"</p> + +<p>"No, no—that's not right. +He wanted to go so badly +that he died when he wasn't +allowed to, Ann. He must have +had something in mind, something +concrete, something tremendous. +Something that +would have changed the picture +a great deal."</p> + +<p>And then she was staring at +Shandor, her face white, grey +eyes wide. "Of course he had +something," she exclaimed. +"He <i>must</i> have—oh, I don't +know what, he wouldn't say +what was in his mind, but +when he came home after that +meeting with the President he +was furious— I've never seen +him so furious, Tom, he was +almost out of his mind with +anger, and he paced the floor, +and, swore and nearly tore the +room apart. He wouldn't speak +to anyone, just stamped +around and threw things. And +then we heard him cry out, +and when we got to him he +was unconscious on the floor, +and he was dead when the doctor +came—" She set her glass +down with trembling fingers. +"He had something big, Tom, +I'm sure of it. He had some +information that he planned +to drop on the conference table +with such a bang it would +stop the whole world cold. <i>He +knew something</i> that the conference +doesn't know—"</p> + +<p>Tom Shandor stood up, +trembling, and took the briefcase. +"It should be here," he +said. "If not the whole story, +at least the missing pieces." +He started for the booth door. +"Go home," he said. "I'm going +where I can examine these +files without any interference. +Then I'll call you." And then +he was out the door, shouldering +his way through the +crowded restaurant, frantically +weaving his way to the +street. He didn't hear Ann's +voice as she called after him +to stop, didn't see her stop at +the booth door, watch in a +confusion of fear and tenderness, +and collapse into the +booth, sobbing as if her heart +would break. Because a crazy, +twisted, impossible idea was +in his mind, an idea that had +plagued him since he had +started reading that morning, +an idea with an answer, an +acid test, folded in the briefcase +under his arm. He +bumped into a fat man at the +bar, grunted angrily, and finally +reached the street, whistled +at the cab that lingered +nearby.</p> + +<p>The car swung up before +him, the door springing open +automatically. He had one +foot on the running board before +he saw the trap, saw the +tight yellowish face and the +glittering eyes inside the cab. +Suddenly there was an explosion +of bright purple brilliance, +and he was screaming, +twisting and screaming and +reeling backward onto the +sidewalk, doubled over with +the agonizing fire that burned +through his side and down one +leg, forcing scream after +scream from his throat as he +blindly staggered to the wall +of the building, pounded it +with his fists for relief from +the searing pain. And then he +was on his side on the sidewalk, +sobbing, blubbering incoherently +to the uniformed +policeman who was dragging +him gently to his feet, seeing +through burning eyes the +group of curious people gathering +around. Suddenly realization +dawned through the +pain, and he let out a cry of +anger and bolted for the curb, +knocking the policeman aside, +his eyes wild, searching the +receding stream of traffic for +the cab, a picture of the occupant +burned indelibly into his +mind, a face he had seen, recognized. +The cab was gone, he +knew, gone like a breath of +wind. The briefcase was also +gone—</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>He gave the address of the +Essex University Hospital to +the cabby, and settled back in +the seat, gripping the hand-guard +tightly to fight down +the returning pain in his side +and leg. His mind was whirling, +fighting in a welter of +confusion, trying to find +some avenue of approach, +some way to make sense of +the mess. The face in the cab +recurred again and again before +his eyes, the gaunt, putty-colored +cheeks, the sharp +glittering eyes. His acquaintance +with Frank Mariel had +been brief and unpleasant, in +the past, but that was a face +he would never forget. But +how could Mariel have known +where he would be, and when? +There was precision in that attack, +far too smooth precision +ever to have been left to +chance, or even to independent +planning. His mind skirted +the obvious a dozen times, +and each time rejected it angrily. +Finally he knew he +could no longer reject the +thought, the only possible answer. +Mariel had known +where he would be, and at +what time. Therefore, someone +must have told him.</p> + +<p>He stiffened in the seat, the +pain momentarily forgotten. +Only one person could have +told Mariel. Only one person +knew where the file was, and +where it would be after he +left the restaurant—he felt +cold bitterness creep down his +spine. She had known, and +sat there making eyes at him, +and telling him how wonderful +he was, how she was with +him no matter what happened—and +she'd already sold him +down the river. He shook his +head angrily, trying to keep +his thoughts on a rational +plane. <i>Why?</i> Why had she +strung him along, why had +she even started to help him? +And why, above all, turn +against her own father?</p> + +<p>The Hospital driveway +crunched under the cab, and +he hopped out, wincing with +every step, and walked into a +phone booth off the lobby. He +gave a name, and in a moment +heard the P.A. system echoing it: +"Dr. Prex; calling Dr. Prex." +In a moment he heard a receiver +click off, and a familiar +voice said, "Prex speaking."</p> + +<p>"Prex, this is Shandor. Got +a minute?"</p> + +<p>The voice was cordial. +"Dozens of them. Where are +you?"</p> + +<p>"I'll be up in your quarters." +Shandor slammed down the +receiver and started for the +elevator to the Resident Physicians' +wing.</p> + +<p>He let himself in by a key, +and settled down in the darkened +room to wait an eternity +before a tall, gaunt man +walked in, snapped on a light, +and loosened the white jacket +at his neck. He was a young +man, no more than thirty, with +a tired, sober face and jet +black hair falling over his +forehead. His eyes lighted as +he saw Shandor, and he +grinned. "You look like you've +been through the mill. What +happened?"</p> + +<p>Shandor stripped off his +clothes, exposing the angry +red of the seared skin. The +tall man whistled softly, the +smile fading. Carefully he examined +the burned area, his +fingers gentle on the tender +surface, then he turned troubled +eyes to Shandor. "You've +been messing around with dirty +guys, Tom. Nobody but a +real dog would turn a scalder +on a man." He went to a cupboard, +returned with a jar of +salve and bandages.</p> + +<p>"Is it serious?" Shandor's +face was deathly white. "I've +been fighting shock with thiamin +for the last hour, but I +don't think I can hold out +much longer."</p> + +<p>Prex shrugged. "You didn't +get enough to do any permanent +damage, if that's what +you mean. Just fried the pain-receptors +in your skin to a +crisp, is all. A little dose is +so painful you can't do anything +but holler for a while, +but it won't hurt you permanently +unless you get it all +over you. Enough can kill +you." He dressed the burned +areas carefully, then bared +Shandor's arm and used a +pressure syringe for a moment. +"Who's using one of +those things?"</p> + +<p>Shandor was silent for a +moment. Then he said, "Look, +Prex. I need some help, badly." +His eyes looked up in +dull anger. "I'm going to see a +man tonight, and I want him +to talk, hard and fast. I don't +care right now if he nearly +dies from pain, but I want him +to talk. I need somebody +along who knows how to make +things painful."</p> + +<p>Prex scowled, and pointed +to the burn. "This the man?"</p> + +<p>"That's the man."</p> + +<p>Prex put away the salve. "I +suppose I'll help you, then. +Is this official, or grudge?"</p> + +<p>"A little of both. Look, +Prex, I know this is a big favor +to ask, but it's on the level. +Believe me, it's square, +nothing shady about it. The +method may not be legal, but +the means are justified. I can't +tell you what's up, but I'm +asking you to trust me."</p> + +<p>Prex grinned. "You say it's +all right, it's all right. When?"</p> + +<p>Shandor glanced at his +watch. "About 3:00 this morning, +I think. We can take +your car."</p> + +<p>They talked for a while, +and a call took the doctor +away. Shandor slept a little, +then made some black coffee. +Shortly before three the two +men left the Hospital by the +Physicians' entrance, and +Prex's little beat-up Dartmouth +slid smoothly into the +desultory traffic for the suburbs.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The apartment was small +and neatly furnished. Shandor +and the Doctor had been admitted +by a sleepy doorman +who had been jolted to sudden +attention by Tom's PIB card, +and after five minutes pounding +on the apartment door, a +sleepy-eyed man opened the +door a crack. "Say, what's the +idea pounding on a man's door +at this time of night? Haven't +you—"</p> + +<p>Shandor gave the door a +shove with his shoulder, driving +it open into the room. +"Shut up," he said bluntly. +He turned so the light struck +his face, and the little man's +jaw dropped in astonishment. +"Shandor!" he whispered.</p> + +<p>Frank Mariel looked like a +weasel—sallow, sunken-cheeked, +with a yellowish cast +to his skin that contrasted unpleasantly +with the coal black +hair. "That's right," said Shandor. +"We've come for a little +talk. Meet the doctor."</p> + +<p>Mariel's eyes shifted momentarily +to Prex's stoney +face, then back to Shandor, +ghosts of fear creeping across +his face. "What do you +want?"</p> + +<p>"I've come for the files."</p> + +<p>The little man scowled. +"You've come to the wrong +man. I don't have any files."</p> + +<p>Prex carefully took a small +black case from his pocket, +unsnapped a hinge, and a +small, shiny instrument fell +out in his hand. "The files," +said Shandor. "Who has +them?"</p> + +<p>"I—I don't know—"</p> + +<p>Shandor smashed a fist into +the man's face, viciously, +knocking him reeling to the +floor. "You tried to kill me +tonight," he snarled. "You +should have done it up right. +You should stick to magazine +editing and keep your nose +out of dirty games, Mariel. +Who has the files?"</p> + +<p>Mariel picked himself up, +trembling, met Shandor's fist, +and sprawled again, a trickle +of blood appearing at his +mouth. "Harry Dartmouth has +the files," he groaned. +"They're probably in Chicago +now."</p> + +<p>"What do you know about +Harry Dartmouth?"</p> + +<p>Mariel gained a chair this +time before Shandor hit him. +"I've only met him a couple +of times. He's the president of +Dartmouth Bearing Corporation +and he's my boss—Dartmouth +Bearing publishes +'<i>Fighting World</i>.' I do what +he tells me."</p> + +<p>Shandor's eyes flared. "Including +murder, is that +right?" Mariel's eyes were +sullen. "Come on, talk! Why +did Dartmouth want Ingersoll's +personal files?"</p> + +<p>The man just stared sullenly +at the floor. Prex pressed +a stud on the side of the shiny +instrument, and a purple +flash caught Mariel's little +finger. Mariel jerked and +squealed with pain. "Speak +up," said Shandor. "I didn't +hear you."</p> + +<p>"Probably about the bonds," +Mariel whimpered. His face +was ashen, and he eyed Prex +with undisguised pleading. +"Look, tell him to put that +thing away—"</p> + +<p>Shandor grinned without +humor. "You don't like scalders, +eh? Get a big enough +dose, and you're dead, Mariel—but +I guess you know that, +don't you? Think about it. But +don't think too long. What +about the bonds?"</p> + +<p>"Ingersoll has been trying +to get Dartmouth Bearing +Corporation on legal grounds +for years. Something about +the government bonds they +held, bought during the China +wars. You know, surplus profits—Dartmouth +Bearing +could beat the taxes by buying +bonds. Harry Dartmouth +thought Ingersoll's files had +some legal dope against them—he +was afraid you'd try to +make trouble for the company—"</p> + +<p>"So he hired his little pixie, +eh? Seems to me you'd +have enough on your hands +editing that rag—"</p> + +<p>Mariel shot him an injured +look. "'<i>Fighting World</i>' has +the second largest magazine +circulation in the country. It's +a good magazine."</p> + +<p>"It's a warmonger propaganda +rag," snapped Shandor. +He glared at the little man. +"What's your relation to Ingersoll?"</p> + +<p>"I hated his guts. He was +carrying his lily-livered pacifism +right to the White House, +and I couldn't see it. So I +fought him every inch of the +way. I'll fight what he stands +for now he's dead—"</p> + +<p>Shandor's eyes narrowed. +"That was a mistake, Mariel. +You weren't supposed to know +he is dead." He walked over +to the little man, whose face +was a shade whiter yet. "Funny," +said Shandor quietly. +"You say you hated him, but +I didn't get that impression at +all."</p> + +<p>Mariel's eyes opened wide. +"What do you mean?"</p> + +<p>"Everything you wrote for +PIB seems to have treated him +kindly."</p> + +<p>A shadow of deep concern +crossed Mariel's face, as +though for the first time he +found himself in deep water. +"PIB told me what to write, +and I wrote it. You know how +they work."</p> + +<p>"Yes, I know how they +work. I also know that most of +your writing, while you were +doing Public Information +Board work, was never ordered +by PIB. Ever hear of +Ben Chamberlain, Mariel? Or +Frank Eberhardt? Or Jon +Harding? Ever hear of them, +Mariel?" Shandor's voice cut +sharply through the room. +"Ben Chamberlain wrote for +every large circulation magazine +in the country, after the +Chinese war. Frank Eberhardt +was the man behind Associated +Press during those +years. Jon Harding was the +silent publisher of three +newspapers in Washington, +two in New York, and one in +Chicago. Ever hear of those +men, Mariel?"</p> + +<p>"No, no—"</p> + +<p>"You know damned well +you've heard of them. Because +<i>those men were all you</i>. Every +single one of them—" Shandor +was standing close to him, +now, and Mariel sat like he +had seen a ghost, his lower +lip quivering, forehead wet. +"No, no, you're wrong—"</p> + +<p>"No, no, I'm right," mocked +Shandor. "I've been in the +newspaper racket for a long +time, Mariel. I've got friends +in PIB—real friends, not the +shamus crowd you're acquainted +with that'll take you +for your last nickel and then +leave you to starve. Never +mind how I found out. You +hated Ingersoll so much you +handed him bouquets all the +time. How about it, Mariel? +All that writing—you couldn't +praise him enough. Boosting +him, beating the drum for him +and his policies—every trick +and gimmick known in the +propaganda game to give him +a boost, make him the people's +darling—how about it?"</p> + +<p>Mariel was shaking his +head, his little eyes nearly +popping with fright. "It +wasn't him," he choked. "Ingersoll +had nothing to do +with it. It was Dartmouth +Bearing. They bought me +into the spots. Got me the +newspapers, supported me. +Dartmouth Bearing ran the +whole works, and they told +me what to write—"</p> + +<p>"Garbage! Dartmouth Bearing—the +biggest munitions +people in America, and I'm +supposed to believe that they +told you to go to bat for the +country's strongest pacifist! +What kind of sap do you take +me for?"</p> + +<p>"It's true! Ingersoll had +nothing to do with it, nothing +at all." Mariel's voice was +almost pleading. "Look, I +don't know what Dartmouth +Bearing had in mind. Who +was I to ask questions? You +don't realize their power, +Shandor. Those bonds I spoke +of—they hold millions of dollars +worth of bonds! They +hold enough bonds to topple +the economy of the nation, +they've got bonds in the +names of ten thousand subsidiary +companies. They've +been telling Federal Economics +Commission what to do +for the past ten years! And +they're getting us into this +war, Shandor—lock, stock +and barrel. They pushed for +everything they could get, +and they had the money, the +power, the men to do whatever +they wanted. You +couldn't fight them, because +they had everything sewed +up so tight nobody could approach +them—"</p> + +<p>Shandor's mind was racing, +the missing pieces beginning, +suddenly, to come +out of the haze. The incredible, +twisted idea broke +through again, staggering +him, driving through his +mind like icy steel. "Listen, +Mariel. I swear I'll kill you +if you lie to me, so you'd +better tell the truth. Who +put you on my trail? Who +told you Ingersoll was dead, +and that I was scraping up +Ingersoll's past?"</p> + +<p>The little man twisted his +hands, almost in tears. "Harry +Dartmouth told me—"</p> + +<p>"And who told Harry +Dartmouth?"</p> + +<p>Mariel's voice was so weak +it could hardly be heard. +"The girl," he said.</p> + +<p>Shandor felt the chill +deepen. "And where are the +files now?"</p> + +<p>"Dartmouth has them. Probably +in Chicago—I expressed +them. The girl didn't +dare send them direct, for +fear you would check, or that +she was being watched. I +was supposed to pick them +up from you, and see to it +that you didn't remember—"</p> + +<p>Shandor clenched his fist. +"Where are Dartmouth's +plants located?"</p> + +<p>"The main plants are in +Chicago and Newark. They've +got a smaller one in Nevada."</p> + +<p>"And what do they make?"</p> + +<p>"In peacetime—cars. In wartime +they make tanks and +shells."</p> + +<p>"And their records? Inventories? +Shipping orders, +and files? Where do they +keep them?"</p> + +<p>"I—I don't know. You +aren't thinking of—"</p> + +<p>"Never mind what I'm +thinking of, just answer up. +Where are they?"</p> + +<p>"All the administration offices +are in Chicago. But +they'd kill you, Shandor—you +wouldn't stand a chance. +They can't be fought, I tell +you."</p> + +<p>Shandor nodded to Prex, +and started for the door. +"Keep him here until dawn, +then go on home, and forget +what you heard. If anything +happens, give me a ring at my +home." He glared at Mariel. +"Don't worry about me, bud—they +won't be doing anything +to me when I get +through with them. They +just won't be doing anything +at all."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The idea had crystallized +as he talked to Mariel. Shandor's +mind was whirling as +he walked down toward the +thoroughfare. Incredulously, +he tried to piece the picture +together. He had known +Dartmouth Bearing was big—but +that big? Mariel might +have been talking nonsense, +or he might have been reading +the Gospel. Shandor +hailed a cab, sat back in the +seat scratching his head. How +big could Dartmouth Bearing +be? Could <i>any</i> corporation +be that big? He thought +back, remembering the rash +of post-war scandals and +profit-gouging trials, the anti-trust +trials. In wartime, +bars are let down, <i>no one</i> +can look with disfavor on +the factories making the +weapons. And if one corporation +could buy, and expand, +and buy some more—it might +be too powerful to be prosecuted +after the war—</p> + +<p>Shandor shook his head, +realizing that he was skirting +the big issue. Dartmouth +Bearing connected up, in +some absurd fashion, but +there was a missing link. +Mariel fit into one side of +the puzzle, interlocking with +Dartmouth. The stolen files +might even fit, for that matter. +But the idea grew +stronger. A great, jagged +piece in the middle of the +puzzle was missing—the key +piece which would tie everything +together. He felt his +skin prickle as he thought. +An impossible idea—and yet, +he realized, if it were true, +everything else would fall +clearly into place—</p> + +<p>He sat bolt upright. It <i>had</i> +to be true—</p> + +<p>He leaned forward and +gave the cabby the landing +field address, then sat back, +feeling his pulse pounding +through his arms and legs. +Nervously he switched on the +radio. The dial fell to some +jazz music, which he tolerated +for a moment or two, +then flipped to a news broadcast. +Not that news broadcasts +really meant much, but +he wanted to hear the Ingersoll +story release for the +day. He listened impatiently +to a roundup of local news: +David Ingersoll stricken +with pneumonia, three Senators +protesting the current +tax bill—he brought his attention +around sharply at the +sound of a familiar name—</p> + +<p>"—disappeared from his +Chicago home early this +morning. Mr. Dartmouth is +president of Dartmouth Bearing +Corporation, currently +engaged in the manufacture +of munitions for Defense, +and producing much of the +machinery being used in the +Moon-rocket in Arizona. Police +are following all possible +leads, and are confident +that there has been no foul +play.</p> + +<p>"On the international +scene, the Kremlin is still +blocking—" Shandor snapped +off the radio abruptly, his +forehead damp. Dartmouth +disappeared, and with him +the files—why? And where +to go now to find them? If +the idea that was plaguing +him was true, sound, valid—he'd +<i>have</i> to have the files. +His whole body was wet with +perspiration as he reached +the landing field.</p> + +<p>The trip to the Library of +Congress seemed endless, yet +he knew that the Library +wouldn't be open until 8:00 +anyway. Suddenly he felt a +wave of extreme weariness +sweep over him—when had +he last slept? Bored, he +snapped the telephone switch +and rang PIB offices for his +mail. To his surprise, John +Hart took the wire, and exploded +in his ear, "Where in +hell have you been? I've +been trying to get you all +night. Listen, Tom, drop the +Ingersoll story cold, and get +in here. The faster the better."</p> + +<p>Shandor blinked. "Drop +the story? You're crazy!"</p> + +<p>"<i>Get in here!</i>" roared Hart. +"From now on you've <i>really</i> +got a job. The Berlin Conference +blew up tonight, Tom—high +as a kite. <i>We're at +war with Russia—</i>"</p> + +<p>Carefully, Shandor plopped +the receiver down on its +hook, his hands like ice. +Just one item first, he +thought, just one thing I've +got to know. <i>Then</i> back to +PIB, maybe.</p> + +<p>He found a booth in the Library, +and began hunting, +time pressing him into frantic +speed. The idea was incredible, +but it <i>had</i> to be +true. He searched the micro-film +files for three hours before +he found it, in a "Who's +Who" dating back to 1958, +three years before the war +with China. A simple, innocuous +listing, which froze +him to his seat. He read it, +unbelievingly, yet knowing +that it was the only possible +link. Finally he read it again.</p> + +<p>David P. Ingersoll. Born +1922, married 1947. Educated +at Rutgers University and +MIT. Worked as administrator +for International Harvester +until 1955. Taught +Harvard University from 1955 +to 1957.</p> + +<p>David P. Ingersoll, becoming, +in 1958, the executive +president of Dartmouth Bearing +Corporation....</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>He found a small, wooded +glade not far from the Library, +and set the 'copter +down skillfully, his mind +numbed, fighting to see +through the haze to the core +of incredible truth he had +uncovered. The great, jagged +piece, so long missing, was +suddenly plopped right down +into the middle of the puzzle, +and now it didn't fit. +There were still holes, holes +that obscured the picture and +twisted it into a nightmarish +impossibility. He snapped +the telephone switch, tried +three numbers without any +success, and finally reached +the fourth. He heard Dr. +Prex's sharp voice on the +wire.</p> + +<p>"Anything happen since I +left, Prex?"</p> + +<p>"Nothing remarkable." The +doctor's voice sounded tired. +"Somebody tried to call Mariel +on the visiphone about +an hour after you had gone, +and then signed off in a hurry +when he saw somebody +else around. Don't know who +it was, but he sounded mighty +agitated." The doctor's voice +paused. "Anything new, +Tom?"</p> + +<p>"Plenty," growled Shandor +bitterly. "But you'll have to +read it in the newspapers." +He flipped off the connection +before Prex could reply.</p> + +<p>Then Shandor sank back +and slept, the sleep of total +exhaustion, hoping that a +rest would make the shimmering, +indefinite picture hold +still long enough for him to +study it. And as he drifted +into troubled sleep a greater +and more pressing question +wormed upward into his +mind.</p> + +<p>He woke with a jolt, just +as the sun was going down, +and he knew then with perfect +clarity what he had to +do. He checked quickly to +see that he had been undisturbed, +and then manipulated +the controls of the 'copter. +Easing the ship into the +sky toward Washington, he +searched out a news report +on the radio, listened with a +dull feeling in the pit of his +stomach as the story came +through about the breakdown +of the Berlin Conference, the +declaration of war, the President's +meeting with Congress +that morning, his formal +request for full wartime +power, the granting of permission +by a wide-eyed, +frightened legislature. Shandor +settled back, staring dully +at the ground moving below +him, the whisps of evening +haze rising over the +darkening land. There was +only one thing to do. He had +to have Ingersoll's files. He +knew only one way to get +them.</p> + +<p>Half an hour later he was +settling the ship down, under +cover of darkness, on the +vast grounds behind the Ingersoll +estate, cutting the +motors to effect a quiet landing. +Tramping down the ravine +toward the huge house, +he saw it was dark; down by +the gate he could see the Security +Guard, standing in a +haze of blue cigarette smoke +under the dim-out lights. Cautiously +he slipped across the +back terrace, crossing behind +the house, and jangled +a bell on a side porch.</p> + +<p>Ann Ingersoll opened the +door, and gasped as Shandor +forced his way in. "Keep +quiet," he hissed, slipping +the door shut behind him. +Then he sighed, and walked +through the entrance into the +large front room.</p> + +<p>"Tom! Oh, Tom, I was +afraid— Oh, <i>Tom</i>!" Suddenly +she was in his arms sobbing, +pressing her face +against his shirt front. "Oh, +I'm so glad to see you, +Tom—"</p> + +<p>He disengaged her, turning +from her and walking across +the room. "Let's turn it off, +Ann," he said disgustedly. +"It's not very impressive."</p> + +<p>"Tom—I—I <i>wanted</i> to tell +you. I just didn't know what +to do. I didn't believe them +when they said you wouldn't +be harmed, I was afraid. Oh, +Tom, I wanted to tell you, +believe me—"</p> + +<p>"You didn't tell me," he +snapped. "They were nervous, +they slipped up. That's the +only reason I'm alive. They +planned to kill me."</p> + +<p>She stared at him tearfully, +shaking her head from side +to side, searching for words. +"I—I didn't want that—"</p> + +<p>He whirled, his eyes blazing. +"You silly fool, what do +you think you're doing when +you play games with a mob +like this? Do you think +they're going to play fair? +You're no clod, you know +better than that—" He +leaned over her, trembling +with anger. "You set me up +for a sucker, but the plan +fell through. And now I'm +running around loose, and if +you thought I was dangerous +before, you haven't seen +anything like how dangerous +I am now. You're going to +tell me some things, now, +and you're going to tell them +straight. You're going to tell +me where Harry Dartmouth +went with those files, where +they are right now. Understand +that? <i>I want those +files.</i> Because when I have +them I'm going to do exactly +what I started out to do. +I'm going to write a story, +the whole rotten story about +your precious father and his +two-faced life. I'm going to +write about Dartmouth Bearing +Corporation and all its +flunky outfits, and tell what +they've done to this country +and the people of this country." +He paused, breathing +heavily, and sank down on a +chair, staring at her. "I've +learned things in the past +twenty-four hours I never +dreamed could be true. I +should be able to believe anything, +I suppose, but these +things knocked my stilts out +from under me. This country +has been had—right straight +down the line, for a dozen +years. We've been sold down +the river like a pack of +slaves, and now we're going +to get a look at the cold ugly +truth, for once."</p> + +<p>She stared at him. "What +do you mean—about my precious +father—?"</p> + +<p>"Your precious father was +at the bottom of the whole +slimy mess."</p> + +<p>"No, no—not dad." She +shook her head, her face +chalky. "Harry Dartmouth, +maybe, but not dad. Listen a +minute. I didn't set you up +for anything. I didn't know +what Dartmouth and Mariel +were up to. Dad left instructions +for me to contact Harry +Dartmouth immediately, in +case he died. He told me that—oh, +a year ago. Told me +that before I did anything +else, I should contact Dartmouth, +and do as he said. So +when he died, I contacted +Harry, and kept in contact +with him. He told me you +were out to burn my father, +to heap garbage on him after +he was dead before the people +who loved him, and he +said the first thing you would +want would be his personal +files. Tom, I didn't know +you, then—I knew Harry, +and knew that dad trusted +him, for some reason, so I +believed him. But I began to +realize that what he said +wasn't true. I got the files, +and he said to give them to +you, to string you along, and +he'd pick them up from you +before you had a chance to +do any harm with them. He +said he wouldn't hurt you, +but I—I didn't believe him, +Tom. I believed you, that you +wanted to give dad a fair +shake—"</p> + +<p>Shandor was on his feet, +his eyes blazing. "So you +turned them over to Dartmouth +anyway? And what do +you think he's done with +them? Can you tell me +that? Where has he gone? +Has he burnt them? If not, +what's he going to do with +them?"</p> + +<p>Her voice was weak, and +she looked as if she were +about to faint. "That's what +I'm trying to tell you," she +said, shakily. "He doesn't +have them. I have them."</p> + +<p>Shandor's jaw dropped. +"Now, wait a minute," he +said softly. "You gave me +the briefcase, Mariel snatched +it and nearly killed me—"</p> + +<p>"A dummy, Tom. I didn't +know who to trust, but I +knew I believed you more +than I believed Harry. +Things happened so fast, and +I was so confused—" She +looked straight at him. "I +gave you a dummy, Tom."</p> + +<p>His knees walked out from +under him, then, and he sank +into a chair. "You've got +them here, then," he said +weakly.</p> + +<p>"Yes. I have them here."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>The room was in the back +of the house, a small, crowded +study, with a green-shaded +desk lamp. Shandor +dumped the contents of the +briefcase onto the desk, and +settled down, his heart +pounding in his throat. He +started at the top of the pile, +sifting, ripping out huge +sheafs of papers, receipts, +notes, journals, clippings. He +hardly noticed when the +girl slipped out of the room, +and he was deep in study +when she returned half an +hour later with steaming +black coffee. With a grunt +of thanks he drank it, never +shifting his attention from +the scatter of papers, papers +from the personal file of a +dead man. And slowly, the +picture unfolded.</p> + +<p>An ugly picture. A picture +of deceit, a picture full of +lies, full of secret promises, +a picture of scheming, of +plotting, planning, influencing, +coercing, cheating, propagandizing—all +with one +single-minded aim, with a +single terrible goal.</p> + +<p>Shandor read, numbly, his +mind twisting in protest as +the picture unfolded. David +Ingersoll's control of Dartmouth +Bearing Corporation +and its growing horde of +subsidiaries under the figurehead +of his protege, Harry +Dartmouth. The huge profits +from the Chinese war, +the relaxation of control +laws, the millions of war-won +dollars ploughed back into +government bonds, in a thousand +different names, all controlled +by Dartmouth Bearing +Corporation—</p> + +<p>And Ingersoll's own work +in the diplomatic field—an +incredibly skillful, incredibly +evil channeling of power +and pressure toward the inevitable +goal, hidden under +the cloak of peaceful respectability +and popular support. +The careful treaties, quietly +disorganizing a dozen national +economics, antagonizing +the great nation to the +East under the all too acceptable +guise of "peace +through strength." Reciprocal +trade agreements bitterly antagonistic +to Russian economic +development. The continual +bickering, the skillful +manipulation hidden under +the powerful propaganda +cloak of a hundred publications, +all coursing to one ultimate, +terrible goal, all with +one purpose, one aim—</p> + +<p>War. War with anybody, +war in the field and war on +the diplomatic front. Traces +even remained of the work +done within the enemy nations, +bitter anti-Ingersoll +propaganda from within the +ranks of Russia herself, +manipulated to strengthen +Ingersoll in America, to +build him up, to drive the +nations farther apart, while +presenting Ingersoll as the +pathetic prince of world +peace, fighting desperately +to stop the ponderous wheels +of the irresistible juggernaut—</p> + +<p>And in America, the constant, +unremitting literary +and editorial drumbeating, +pressuring greater war preparation, +distilling hatreds +in a thousand circles, focussing +them into a single channel. +Tremendous propaganda +pressure to build armies, to +build weapons, to get the +Moon-rocket project underway—</p> + +<p>Shandor sat back, eyes +drooping, fighting to keep his +eyes open. His mind was +numb, his body trembling. A +sheaf of papers in a separate +folder caught his eye, production +records of the Dartmouth +Bearing Corporation, almost +up to the date of Ingersoll's +death. Shandor frowned, a +snag in the chain drawing his +attention. He peered at the papers, +vaguely puzzled. Invoices +from the Chicago +plant, materials for tanks, and +guns, and shells. Steel, chemicals. +The same for the New +Jersey plant, the same with a +dozen subsidiary plants. Shipments +of magnesium and silver +wire to the Rocket Project +in Arizona, carried +through several subsidiary offices. +The construction of a +huge calculator for the Project +in Arizona. Motors and +materials, all for Arizona—something +caught his mind, +brought a frown to his large +bland face, some off-key note +in the monstrous symphony of +production and intrigue that +threw up a red flag in his +mind, screamed for attention—</p> + +<p>And then he sipped the +fresh coffee at his elbow and +sighed, and looked up at the +girl standing there, saw her +hand tremble as she steadied +herself against the desk, and +sat down beside him. He felt a +great confusion, suddenly, a +vast sympathy for this girl, +and he wanted to take her in +his arms, hold her close, <i>protect</i> +her, somehow. She didn't +know, she <i>couldn't</i> know about +this horrible thing. She +couldn't have been a party to +it, a part of it. He knew the +evidence said yes, she knows +the whole story, she <i>helped</i> +them, but he also knew that +the evidence, somehow, was +wrong, that somehow, he still +didn't have the whole picture—</p> + +<p>She looked at him, her voice +trembling. "You're wrong, +Tom," she said.</p> + +<p>He shook his head, helplessly. +"I'm sorry. It's horrible, I +know. But I'm not wrong. +This war was planned. We've +been puppets on strings, and +one man engineered it, from +the very start. Your father."</p> + +<p>Her eyes were filled with +tears, and she shook her head, +running a tired hand across +her forehead. "You didn't +know him, Tom. If you did, +you'd know how wrong you +are. He was a great man, +fine man, but above all he was +a <i>good</i> man. Only a monster +could have done what you're +thinking. Dad hated war, he +fought it all his life. He +couldn't be the monster you +think."</p> + +<p>Tom's voice was soft in the +darkened room, his eyes +catching the downcast face of +the trembling girl, fighting +to believe in a phantom, and +his hatred for the power that +could trample a faith like that +suddenly swelled up in bitter +hopeless rage. "It's here, on +paper, it can't be denied. It's +hateful, but it's here, it's what +I set out to learn. It's not a +lie this time, Ann, it's the +truth, and this time it's <i>got to +be told</i>. I've written my last +false story. This one is going +to the people the way it is. +This one is going to be the +truth."</p> + +<p>He stopped, staring at her. +The puzzling, twisted hole in +the puzzle was suddenly there, +staring him in the face, falling +down into place in his +mind with blazing clarity. +Staring, he dived into the pile +of papers again, searching, +frantically searching for the +missing piece, something he +had seen, and passed over, the +one single piece in the story +that didn't make sense. And +he found it, on the lists of +materials shipped to the Nevada +plant. Pig Iron. Raw magnesium. +Raw copper. Steel, electron +tubes, plastics, from all +parts of the country, all being +shipped to the Dartmouth +Plant in Nevada—</p> + +<p><i>Where they made only</i> +shells—</p> + +<p>At first he thought it was +only a rumble in his mind, the +shocking realization storming +through. Then he saw Ann +jump up suddenly, white-faced +and race to the window, +and he heard the small scream +in her throat. And then the +rumbling grew louder, stronger, +and the house trembled. He +heard the whine of jet planes +scream over the house as he +joined her at the window, +heard the screaming whines +mingled with the rumbling +thunder. And far away, on the +horizon, the red glare was +glowing, rising, burning up to +a roaring conflagration in the +black night sky—</p> + +<p>"Washington!" Her voice +was small, infinitely frightened.</p> + +<p>"Yes. That's Washington."</p> + +<p>"Then it really <i>has</i> started." +She turned to him with eyes +wide with horror, and snuggled +up to his chest like a +frightened child. "Oh, Tom—"</p> + +<p>"It's here. What we've been +waiting for. What your father +started could never be stopped +any other way than this—"</p> + +<p>The roar was louder now, +rising to a whining scream as +another squad of dark ships +roared overhead, moving East +and South, jets whistling in +the night. "This is what your +father wanted."</p> + +<p>She was crying, great sobs +shaking her shoulders. "You're +wrong, you're wrong—oh, +Tom, you must be wrong—"</p> + +<p>His voice was low, almost +inaudible in the thundering +roar of the bombardment. +"Ann, I've got to go ahead. +I've got to go tonight. To +Nevada, to the Dartmouth +plant there. I know I'm right, +but I have to go, to check +something—to make sure of +something." He paused, looking +down at her. "I'll be back, +Ann. But I'm afraid of what +I'll find out there. I need you +behind me. Especially with +what I have to do, I need you. +You've got to decide. Are you +for me? Or against me?"</p> + +<p>She shook her head sadly, +and sank into a chair, gently +removing his hands from her +waist. "I loved my father, +Tom," she said in a beaten +voice. "I can't help what he's +done—I loved him. I—I can't +be with you, Tom."</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Far below him he could see +the cars jamming the roads +leaving Washington. He could +almost hear the noise, the +screeching of brakes, the fistfights, +the shouts, the blatting +of horns. He moved south over +open country, hoping to avoid +the places where the 'copter +might be spotted and stopped +for questioning. He knew +that Hart would have an +alarm out for him by now, and +he didn't dare risk being +stopped until he reached his +destination, the place where +the last piece to the puzzle +could be found, the answer to +the question that was burning +through his mind. Shells were +made of steel and chemicals. +The tools that made them +were also made of steel. Not +manganese. Not copper. Not +electron relays, nor plastic, +nor liquid oxygen. Just steel.</p> + +<p>The 'copter relayed south +and then turned west over +Kentucky. Shandor checked +the auxiliary tanks which he +had filled at the Library landing +field that morning; then +he turned the ship to robot +controls and sank back in the +seat to rest. His whole body +clamored for sleep, but he +knew he dare not sleep. Any +slip, any contact with Army +aircraft or Security patrol +could throw everything into +the fire— For hours he sat, +gazing hypnotically at the +black expanse of land below, +flying high over the pitch-black +countryside. Not a light +showed, not a sign of life.</p> + +<p>Bored, he flipped the radio +button, located a news broadcast. +"—the bombed area did +not extend west of the Appalachians. +Washington DC was +badly hit, as were New York +and Philadelphia, and further +raids are expected to originate +from Siberia, coming +across the great circle to the +West coast or the Middle +west. So far the Enemy appears +to have lived up to its +agreement in the Ingersoll +pact to outlaw use of atomic +bombs, for no atomic weapons +have been used so far, but the +damage with block-busters has +been heavy. All citizens are +urged to maintain strictest +blackout regulations, and to +report as called upon in local +work and civil defense pools +as they are set up. The attack +began—"</p> + +<p>Shandor sighed, checked his +instrument readings. Far in +the East the horizon was beginning +to lighten, a healthy, +white-grey light. His calculations +placed him over Eastern +Nebraska, and a few moments +later he nosed down cautiously +and verified his location. +Lincoln Airbase was in a flurry +of activity; the field was +alive with men, like little +black ants, preparing the reserve +fighters and pursuits for +use in a fever of urgent speed. +Suddenly the 'copter radio +bleeped, and Tom threw the +switch. "Over."</p> + +<p>An angry voice snarled, +"You up there, whoever you +are, where'd you leave your +brains? No civilian craft are +allowed in the air, and that's +orders straight from Washington. +Don't you know +there's a war on? Now get +down here, before you're shot +down—"</p> + +<p>Shandor thought quickly. +"This is a Federal Security +ship," he snapped. "I'm just +on a reconnaissance—"</p> + +<p>The voice was cautious. +"Security? What's your corroboration +number?"</p> + +<p>Shandor cursed. "JF223R-864. +Name is Jerry Chandler. +Give it a check if you want +to." He flipped the switch, +and accelerated for the ridge +of hills that marked the Colorado +border as the radio signal +continued to bleep angrily, +and a trio of pursuit planes +on the ground began warming +up. Shandor sighed, hoping +they would check before they +sent ships after him. It might +at least delay them until he +reached his destination.</p> + +<p>Another hour carried him to +the heart of the Rockies, and +across the great salt fields of +Utah. His fuel tanks were +low, being emptied one by one +as the tiny ship sped through +the bright morning sky, and +Tom was growing uneasy, until +suddenly, far to the west +and slightly to the north he +spotted the plant, nestling in +the mountain foothills. It lay +far below, sprawling like some +sort of giant spider across the +rugged terrain. Several hundred +cars spread out to the +south of the plant, and he +could see others speeding in +from the temporary village +across the ridge. Everything +was quiet, orderly. He could +see the shipments, crated, sitting +in freight cars to the +north. And then he saw the +drill line running over to the +right of the plant. He followed +it, quickly checking a +topographical map in the +cockpit, and his heart started +pounding. The railroad branch +ran between two low peaks +and curved out toward the +desert. Moving over it, he saw +the curve, saw it as it cut off +to the left—and seemed to +stop dead in the middle of the +desert sand—</p> + +<p>Shandor circled even lower, +keeping one ear cocked on the +radio, and settled the ship on +the railroad line. And just as +he cut the motors, he heard +the shrill whine of three pursuit +ships screaming in from +the Eastern horizon—</p> + +<p>He was out of the 'copter +almost as soon as it had +touched, throwing a jacket +over his arm, and racing for +the place where the drill line +ended. Because he had seen +as he slid in for a landing, +just what he had suspected +from the topographical map. +The drill didn't end in the +middle of a desert at all. It +went right on into the mountainside.</p> + +<p>The excavation was quite +large, the entrance covered +and camouflaged neatly to +give the very impression that +he had gotten from the air. +Under the camouflage the +space was crowded, stacked +with crates, boxes, materials, +stacked all along the walls of +the tunnel. He followed the +rails in, lighting his way with +a small pocket flashlight when +the tunnel turned a corner, +cutting off the daylight. Suddenly +the tunnel widened, +opening out into a much wider +room. He sensed, rather +than saw, the immense size +of the vault, smelt the odd, +bitter odor in the air. With +the flashlight he probed the +darkness, spotting the high, +vaulted ceiling above him. +And below him—</p> + +<p>At first he couldn't see, +probing the vast excavation +before him, and then, strangely, +he saw but couldn't realize +what he saw. He stared for a +solid minute, uncomprehending, +then, stifling a gasp, he +<i>knew what he was looking +at—</i></p> + +<p>Lights. He had to have +lights, to see clearly what he +couldn't believe. Frantically, +he spun the flashlight, seeking +a light panel, and then, +fascinated, he turned the little +oval of light back to the pit. +And then he heard the barest +whisper of sound, the faintest +intake of breath, and he +ducked, frozen, as a blow +whistled past his ear. A second +blow from the side caught +him solidly in the blackness, +grunting, flailing out into a +tangle of legs and arms, +cursing, catching a foot in his +face, striking up into soft, +yielding flesh—</p> + +<p>And his head suddenly exploded +into a million dazzling +lights as he sank unconscious +to the ground—</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>It was a tiny room, completely +without windows, the +artificial light filtering +through from ventilation slits +near the top. Shandor sat up, +shaking as the chill in the +room became painfully evident. +A small electric heater +sat in the corner beaming valiantly, +but the heat hardly +reached his numbed toes. He +stood up, shaking himself, +slapping his arms against his +sides to drive off the coldness—and +he heard a noise +through the door as soon as +he had made a sound.</p> + +<p>Muted footsteps stopped +outside the door, and a huge +man stepped inside. He +looked at Shandor carefully, +then closed the door behind +him, without locking it. "I'm +Baker," he rasped cheerfully. +"How are you feeling?"</p> + +<p>Shandor rubbed his head, +suddenly and acutely aware of +a very sore nose and a bruised +rib cage. "Not so hot," he muttered. +"How long have I been +out?"</p> + +<p>"Long enough." The man +pulled out a plug of tobacco, +ripped off a chunk with his +teeth. "Chew?"</p> + +<p>"I smoke." Shandor fished +for cigarettes in an empty +pocket.</p> + +<p>"Not in here you don't," +said Baker. He shrugged his +huge shoulders and settled affably +down on a bench near +the wall. "You feel like talking?"</p> + +<p>Shandor eyed the unlocked +door, and turned his eyes to +the huge man. "Sure," he said. +"What do you want to talk +about?"</p> + +<p>"I don't want to talk about +nothin'," the big man replied, +indifferently. "Thought you +might, though."</p> + +<p>"Are you the one that +roughed me up?"</p> + +<p>"Yuh." Baker grinned. +"Hope I didn't hurt you much. +Boss said to keep you in one +piece, but we had to hurry up, +and take care of those Army +guys you brought in on your +tail. That was dumb. You almost +upset everything."</p> + +<p>Memory flooded back, and +Shandor's eyes widened. "Yes—they +followed me all the +way from Lincoln—what happened +to them?"</p> + +<p>Baker grinned and chomped +his tobacco. "They're a long +way away now. Don't worry +about them."</p> + +<p>Shandor eyed the door uneasily. +The latch hadn't +caught, and the door had +swung open an inch or two. +"Where am I?" he asked, inching +toward the door. "What—what +are you planning to do +to me?"</p> + +<p>Baker watched him edging +away. "You're safe," he said. +"The boss'll talk to you pretty +soon if you feel like it—" He +squinted at Tom in surprise, +pointing an indolent thumb +toward the door. "You planning +to go out or something?"</p> + +<p>Tom stopped short, his face +red. The big man shrugged. +"Go ahead. I ain't going to +stop you." He grinned. "Go as +far as you can."</p> + +<p>Without a word Shandor +threw open the door, looked +out into the concrete corridor. +At the end was a large, bright +room. Cautiously he started +down, then suddenly let out a +cry and broke into a run, his +eyes wide—</p> + +<p>He reached the room, a +large room, with heavy plastic +windows. He ran to one of +the windows, pulse pounding, +and stared, a cry choking in +his throat. The blackness of +the crags contrasted dimly +with the inky blackness of the +sky beyond. Mile upon mile +of jagged, rocky crags, black +rock, ageless, unaged rock. +And it struck him with a jolt +how easily he had been able +to run, how lightning-swift his +movements. He stared again, +and then he saw what he had +seen in the pit, standing high +outside the building on a +rocky flat, standing bright and +silvery, like a phantom finger +pointing to the inky heavens, +sleek, smooth, resting on polished +tailfins, like an other-worldly +bird poised for +flight—</p> + +<p>A voice behind him said, +"You aren't really going anyplace, +you know. Why run?" +It was a soft voice, a kindly +voice, cultured, not rough and +biting like Baker's voice. It +came from directly behind +Shandor, and he felt his skin +crawl. He had heard that voice +before—many times before. +Even in his dreams he had +heard that voice. "You see, it's +pretty cold out there. And +there isn't any air. You're on +the Moon, Mr. Shandor—"</p> + +<p>He whirled, his face twisted +and white. And he stared at +the small figure standing at +the door, a stoop-shouldered +man, white hair slightly untidy, +crow's-feet about his +tired eyes. An old man, with +eyes that carried a sparkle of +youth and kindliness. The +eyes of David P. Ingersoll.</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>Shandor stared for a long +moment, shaking his head like +a man seeing a phantom. +When he found words, his +voice was choked, the words +wrenched out as if by force. +"You're—you're alive."</p> + +<p>"Yes. I'm alive."</p> + +<p>"Then—" Shandor shook his +head violently, turning to the +window, and back to the small, +white-haired man. "Then your +death was just a fake."</p> + +<p>The old man nodded tiredly. +"That's right. Just a fake."</p> + +<p>Shandor stumbled to a chair, +sat down woodenly. "I don't +get it," he said dully. "I just +don't get it. The war—that—that +I can see. I can see how +you worked it, how you engineered +it, but this—" he gestured +feebly at the window, at +the black, impossible landscape +outside. "This I can't +see. They're bombing us to +pieces, they're bombing out +Washington, probably your +own home, your own family—last +night—" he stopped, +frowning in confusion—"no, +it couldn't have been last +night—two days ago?—well, +whatever day it was, they +were bombing us to pieces, +and you're up here—<i>why</i>? +What's it going to get you? +This war, this whole rotten intrigue +mess, and then <i>this</i>?"</p> + +<p>The old man walked across +the room and stared for a moment +at the silent ship outside. +"I hope I can make you +understand. We had to come +here. We had no choice. We +couldn't do what we wanted +any other way than to come +here—<i>first</i>. Before anybody +else."</p> + +<p>"But why <i>here</i>? They're +building a rocket there in +Arizona. They'll be up here +in a few days, maybe a few +weeks—"</p> + +<p>"Approximately forty-eight +hours," corrected Ingersoll +quietly. "Within forty-eight +hours the Arizona rocket will +be here. If the Russian rocket +doesn't get here first."</p> + +<p>"It doesn't make sense. It +won't do you any good to be +here if the Earth is blasted to +bits. Why come here? And +why bring <i>me</i> here, of all people? +What do you want with +me?"</p> + +<p>Ingersoll smiled and sat +down opposite Shandor. "Take +it easy," he said gently. +"You're here, you're safe, and +you're going to get the whole +story. I realize that this is a +bit of a jolt—but you had to +be jolted. With you I think +the jolt will be very beneficial, +since we want you with +us. That's why we brought +you here. We need your help, +and we need it very badly. It's +as simple as that."</p> + +<p>Shandor was on his feet, his +eyes blazing. "No dice. This +is your game, not mine. I don't +want anything to do with +it—"</p> + +<p>"But you don't know the +game—"</p> + +<p>"I know plenty of the game. +I followed the trail, right +from the start. I know the +whole rotten mess. The trail +led me all the way around +Robin Hood's barn, but it told +me things—oh, it told me +plenty! It told me about you, +and this war. And now you +want me to help you! What do +you want me to do? Go down +and tell the people it isn't +really so bad being pounded +to shreds? Should I tell them +they aren't really being +bombed, it's all in their minds? +Shall I tell them this is a war +to defend their freedoms, that +it's a great crusade against the +evil forces of the world? What +kind of a sap do you think I +am?" He walked to the window, +his whole body trembling +with anger. "I followed this +trail down to the end, I +scraped my way down into +the dirtiest, slimiest depths of +the barrel, and I've found you +down there, and your rotten +corporations, and your crowd +of heelers. And on the other +side are three hundred million +people taking the lash +end of the whip on Earth, +helping to feed you. And you +ask me to help you!"</p> + +<p>"Once upon a time," Ingersoll +interrupted quietly, +"there was a fox."</p> + +<p>Shandor stopped and stared +at him.</p> + +<p>"—and the fox got caught +in a trap. A big bear trap, with +steel jaws, that clamped down +on him and held him fast by +the leg. He wrenched and he +pulled, but he couldn't break +that trap open, no matter what +he did. And the fox knew that +the farmer would come along +almost any time to open that +bear trap, and the fox knew +the farmer would kill him. He +knew that if he didn't get out +of that trap, he'd be finished, +sure as sin. But he was a clever +fox, and he found a way to +get out of the bear trap." Ingersoll's +voice was low, tense +in the still room. "Do you +know what he did?"</p> + +<p>Shandor shook his head silently.</p> + +<p>"It was a very simple solution," +said Ingersoll. "Drastic, +but simple. <i>He gnawed off +his leg.</i>"</p> + +<p>Another man had entered +the room, a small, weasel-faced +man with sallow cheeks and +slick black hair. Ingersoll +looked up with a smile, but +Mariel waved him on, and took +a seat nearby.</p> + +<p>"So he chewed off his leg," +Shandor repeated dully. "I +don't get it."</p> + +<p>"The world is in a trap," +said Ingersoll, watching Shandor +with quiet eyes. "A great +big bear trap. It's been in that +trap for decades—ever since +the first World War. The +world has come to a wall it +can't climb, a trap it can't get +out of, a vicious, painful, torturous +trap, and the world +has been struggling for seven +decades to get out. It hasn't +succeeded. And the time is +drawing rapidly nigh for the +farmer to come. Something +had to be done, and done fast, +before it was too late. The fox +had to chew off its leg. And +I had to bring the world to the +brink of a major war."</p> + +<p>Shandor shook his head, his +mind buzzing. "I don't see +what you mean. We never had +a chance for peace, we never +had a chance to get our feet +on the ground from one +round to the next. No time to +do anything worthwhile in the +past seventy years—I don't +see what you mean about a +trap."</p> + +<p>Ingersoll settled back in his +chair, the light catching his +face in sharp profile. "It's +been a century of almost continuous +war," he said. "You've +pointed out the whole trouble. +We haven't had time to catch +our breath, to make a real +peace. The first World War +was a sorry affair, by our +standards—almost a relic of +earlier European wars. Trench +fighting, poor rifles, soap-box +aircraft—nothing to distinguish +it from earlier wars but +its scope. But twenty uneasy +years went by, and another +war began, a very different +sort of war. This one had +fast aircraft, fast mechanized +forces, heavy bombing, +and finally, to cap the climax, +atomics. That second +World War could hold up its +head as a real, strapping, +fighting war in any society +of wars. It was a stiff war, +and a terrible one. Quite a bit +of progress, for twenty +years. But essentially, it was +a war of ideologies, just as +the previous one had been. A +war of intolerance, of unmixable +ideas—"</p> + +<p>The old man paused, and +drew a sip of water from the +canister in the corner. +"Somewhere, somehow, the +world had missed the boat. +Those wars didn't solve anything, +they didn't even make +a very strong pretense. They +just made things worse. +Somewhere, human society +had gotten into a trap, a vicious +circle. It had reached +the end of its progressive +tether, it had no place to go, +no place to expand, to great +common goal. So ideologies +arose to try to solve the dilemma +of a basically static society, +and they fought wars. +And they reached a point, finally, +where they could destroy +themselves unless they +broke the vicious circle, +somehow."</p> + +<p>Shandor looked up, a deep +frown on his face. "You're +trying to say that they needed +a new frontier."</p> + +<p>"Exactly! They desperately +needed it. There was only +one more frontier they could +reach for. A frontier which, +once attained, has no real +end." He gestured toward the +black landscape outside. +"There's the frontier. Space. +The one thing that could +bring human wars to an end. +A vast, limitless frontier +which could drive men's spirits +upward and outward for +the rest of time. And that +frontier seemed unattainable. +It was blocked off by a wall, +by the jaws of a trap. Oh, +they tried. After the first +war the work began. The second +war contributed unimaginably +to the technical knowledge. +But after the second +war, they could go no further. +Because it cost money, it +required a tremendous effort +on the part of the people of +a great nation to do it, and +they couldn't see why they +should spend the money to +get to space. After all, they +had to work up the atomics +and new weapons for the +next war—it was a trap, as +strong and treacherous as +any the people of the world +had ever encountered.</p> + +<p>"The answer, of course, +was obvious. Each war +brought a great surge of technological +development, to +build better weapons, to +fight bigger wars. Some developments +led to extremely beneficial +ends, too—if it +hadn't been for the second +war, a certain British biologist +might still be piddling +around his understaffed, underpaid +laboratory, wishing +he had more money, and +wondering why it was that +that dirty patch of mold on +his petri dish seemed to keep +bacteria from growing—but +the second war created a sudden, +frantic, urgent demand +for something, anything, that +would <i>stop infection—fast</i>. +And in no time, penicillin +was in mass production, saving +untold thousands of lives. +There was no question of +money. Look at the Manhattan +project. How many millions +went into that? It gave +us atomic power, for war, +and for peace. For peaceful +purposes, the money would +never have been spent. But +if it was for the sake of +war—"</p> + +<p>Ingersoll smiled tiredly. +"Sounds insane, doesn't it? +But look at the record. I +looked at the record, way +back at the end of the war +with China. Other men +looked at the record, too. We +got together, and talked. We +knew that the military advantage +of a rocket base on +the moon could be a deciding +factor in another major war. +Military experts had recognized +that fact back in the +1950's. Another war could +give men the technological +kick they needed to get them +to space—possibly <i>in time</i>. If +men got to space before they +destroyed themselves, the +trap would be broken, the +frontier would be opened, and +men could turn their energies +away from destruction toward +something infinitely greater +and more important. With +space on his hands men +could get along without wars. +But if we waited for peacetime +to go to space, we might +never make it. It might be +too late.</p> + +<p>"It was a dreadful undertaking. +I saw the wealth in +the company I directed and +controlled at the end of the +Chinese war, and the idea +grew strong. I saw that a +huge industrial amalgamation +could be undertaken, and +succeed. We had a weapon in +our favor, the most dangerous +weapon ever devised, a +thousand times more potent +than atomics. Hitler used it, +with terrible success. Stalin +used it. Haro-Tsing used it. +Why couldn't Ingersoll use +it? Propaganda—a terrible +weapon. It could make people +think the right way—it could +make them think almost <i>any</i> +way. It made them think +war. From the end of the +last war we started, with +propaganda, with politics, +with money. The group grew +stronger as our power became +more clearly understood. Mariel +handled propaganda +through the newspapers, and +PIB, and magazines—a clever +man—and Harry Dartmouth +handled production. I +handled the politics and diplomacy. +We had but one aim +in mind—to bring about a +threat of major war that +would drive men to space. To +the moon, to a man-made satellite, +<i>somewhere or anywhere</i> +to break through the +Earth's gravity and get to +space. And we aimed at a +controlled war. We had the +power to do it, we had the +money and the plants. We +just had to be certain it +wasn't the <i>ultimate</i> war. It +wasn't easy to make sure +that atomic weapons wouldn't +be used this time—but they +will not. Both nations are +too much afraid, thanks to +our propaganda program. +They both leaped at a chance +to make a face-saving agreement. +And we hoped that the +war could be held off until +we got to the moon, and until +the Arizona rocket project +could get a ship launched for +the moon. The wheels we had +started just moved too fast. +I saw at the beginning of the +Berlin Conference that it +would explode into war, so I +decided the time for my +'death' had arrived. I had to +come here, to make sure the +war doesn't go on any longer +than necessary."</p> + +<p>Shandor looked up at the +old man, his eyes tired. "I +still don't see where I'm supposed +to fit in. I don't see +why you came here at all. +Was that a wild-goose chase +I ran down there, learning +about this?"</p> + +<p>"Not a wild goose chase. +The important work can't +start, you see, until the rocket +gets here. It wouldn't do +much good if the Arizona +rocket got here, to fight the +war. It may come for war, +but it must go back for +peace. We built this rocket +to get us here first—built it +from government specifications, +though they didn't +know it. We had the plant to +build it in, and we were able +to hire technologists <i>not</i> to +find the right answers in +Arizona until we were finished. +Because the whole value +of the war-threat depended +solely and completely upon +our getting here <i>first</i>. When +the Arizona rocket gets to +the moon, the war must be +stopped. Only then can we +start the real 'operation +Bear Trap.' That ship, +whether American or Russian, +will meet with a great +surprise when it reaches the +Moon. We haven't been spotted +here. We left in darkness +and solitude, and if we were +seen, it was chalked off as +a guided missile. We're well +camouflaged, and although +we don't have any sort of +elaborate base—just a couple +of sealed rooms—we have a +ship and we have weapons. +When the first ship comes +up here, the control of the +situation will be in our hands. +Because when it comes, it +will be sent back with an ultimatum +to <i>all</i> nations—to +cease warfare, or suffer the +most terrible, nonpartisan +bombardment the world has +ever seen. A pinpoint bombardment, +from our ship, +here on the Moon. There +won't be too much bickering +I think. The war will stop. +All eyes will turn to us. And +then the big work begins."</p> + +<p>He smiled, his thin face +showing tired lines in the +bright light. "I may die before +the work is done. I don't +know, nor care. I have no +successor, nor have we any +plans to perpetuate our power +once the work is done. As +soon as the people themselves +will take over the work, the +job is theirs, because no +group can hope to ultimately +control space. But first people +must be sold on space, +from the bottom up. They +must be forced to realize the +implications of a ship on the +moon. They must realize that +the first ship was the hardest, +that the trap is sprung. +The amputation is a painful +one, there wasn't any known +anaesthetic, but it will heal, +and from here there is no +further need for war. But the +people must see that, understand +its importance. They've +got to have the whole story, +in terms that they can't mistake. +And that means a propagandist—"</p> + +<p>"You have Mariel," said +Shandor. "He's had the work, +the experience—"</p> + +<p>"He's getting tired. He'll +tell you himself his ideas are +slow, he isn't on his toes any +longer. He needs a new man, +a helper, to take his place. +When the first ship comes, +his job is done." The old man +smiled. "I've watched you, of +course, for years. Mariel saw +that you were given his job +when he left PIB to edit +'<i>Fighting World</i>.' He didn't +think you were the man, he +didn't trust you—thought you +had been raised too strongly +on the sort of gibberish you +were writing. I thought you +were the only man we could +use. So we let you follow the +trail, and watched to see how +you'd handle it. And when +you came to the Nevada +plant, we <i>knew</i> you were the +man we had to have—"</p> + +<p>Shandor scowled, looking +first at Ingersoll, then at +Mariel's impassive face. +"What about Ann?" he asked, +and his voice was unsteady. +"She knew about it all the +time?"</p> + +<p>"No. She didn't know anything +about it. We were +afraid she had upset things +when she didn't turn my files +over to Dartmouth as he'd +told her. We were afraid +you'd go ahead and write the +story as you saw it then, +which would have wrecked +our plan completely. As it +was, she helped us sidestep +the danger in the long run, +but she didn't know what she +was really doing." He +grinned. "The error was ours, +of course. We simply underestimated +our man. We didn't +know you were that tenacious."</p> + +<p>Shandor's face was haggard. +"Look. I—I don't know what +to think. This ship in Arizona—how +long? When will +it come? How do you know +it'll ever come?"</p> + +<p>"We waited until our +agents there gave us a final +report. The ship may be leaving +at any time. But there's +no doubt that it'll come. If +it doesn't, one from Russia +will. It won't be long." He +looked at Shandor closely. +"You'll have to decide by +then, Tom."</p> + +<p>"And if I don't go along +with you?"</p> + +<p>"We could lose. It's as +simple as that. Without a +spokesman, the plan could +fall through completely. +There's only one thing you +need to make your decision, +Tom—faith in men, and a +sure conviction that man was +made for the stars, and not +for an endless circle of useless +wars. Think of it, Tom. +That's what your decision +means."</p> + +<p>Shandor walked to the window, +stared out at the bleak +landscape, watched the great +bluish globe of earth, hanging +like a huge balloon in the +black sky. He saw the myriad +pinpoints of light in the +blackness on all sides of it, +and shook his head, trying to +think. So many things to +think of, so very many things—</p> + +<p>"I don't know," he muttered. +"I just don't know—"</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>It was a long night. Ideas +are cruel, they become a part +of a man's brain, an inner +part of his chemistry, they +carve grooves deep in his +mind which aren't easily +wiped away. He knew he'd +been living a lie, a bitter, +hopeless, endless lie, all his +life, but a liar grows to believe +his own lies. Even to +the point of destruction, he +believes them. It was so hard +to see the picture, now that he +had the last piece in place.</p> + +<p>A fox, and a bear trap. +Such a simple analogy. War +was a hellish proposition, it +was cruel, it was evil. It +could be lost, so very easily. +And it seemed so completely, +utterly senseless to cut off +one's own leg—</p> + +<p>And then he thought, somewhere, +sometime, he'd see +her again. Perhaps they'd be +old by then, but perhaps not—perhaps +they'd still be +young, and perhaps she +wouldn't know the true story +yet. Perhaps he could be the +first to tell her, to let her +know that he had been wrong— Maybe +there could be a +chance to be happy, on +Earth, sometime. They might +marry, even, there might be +children. To be raised for +what? Wars and wars and +more wars? Or was there +another alternative? Perhaps +the stars were winking brighter—</p> + +<hr /> + +<p>A hoarse shout rang +through the quiet rooms. Ingersoll +sat bolt upright, +turned his bright eyes to Mariel, +and looked down the +passageway. And then they +were crowding to the window +as one of the men snapped +off the lights in the room, and +they were staring up at the +pale bluish globe that hung +in the sky, squinting, breathless—</p> + +<p>And they saw the tiny, tiny +burst of brightness on one +side of that globe, saw a tiny +whisp of yellow, cutting an +arc from the edge, moving +farther and farther into the +black circle of space around +the Earth, slicing like a thin +scimitar, moving higher and +higher, and then, magically, +winking out, leaving a tiny, +evaporating trail behind it.</p> + +<p>"You saw it?" whispered +Mariel in the darkness. "You +saw it, David?"</p> + +<p>"Yes. I saw it." Ingersoll +breathed deeply, staring into +the blackness, searching for +a glimmer, a glint, some faint +reassurance that it had not +been a mirage they had seen. +And then Ingersoll felt a +hand in his, Tom Shandor's +hand, gripping his tightly, +wringing it, and when the +lights snapped on again, he +was staring at Shandor, tears +of happiness streaming from +his pale, tired eyes. "You +saw it?" he whispered.</p> + +<p>Shandor nodded, his heart +suddenly too large for his +chest, a peace settling down +on him greater than any he +had ever known in his life.</p> + +<p>"They're coming," he said.</p> + +<div class="trn"><b>Transcriber's Note:</b> +This etext was produced from <i>Fantastic Universe</i> December 1957. +Extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the U.S. +copyright on this publication was renewed. Minor spelling and +typographical errors have been corrected without note.</div> + + + + + + + + +<pre> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bear Trap, by Alan Edward Nourse + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEAR TRAP *** + +***** This file should be named 31094-h.htm or 31094-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + https://www.gutenberg.org/3/1/0/9/31094/ + +Produced by Greg Weeks, Stephen Blundell and the Online +Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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