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diff --git a/31094.txt b/31094.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..c6f1c2c --- /dev/null +++ b/31094.txt @@ -0,0 +1,2537 @@ +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: ASCII + +*** 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 + + + + + + + + + + _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._ + + + bear + trap + + _by ALAN E. NOURSE_ + + + The man's meteoric rise as a peacemaker in a nation tired + by the long years of war made the truth even more shocking. + + +The huge 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. + +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." + +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. + +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." + +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." + +"Official?" + +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. + +"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." + +The big man in the screen blinked, and his heavy face lit up. "The story +on the Rocket Project?" + +Shandor nodded. "The whole scoop. I'm going home now." He started his +hand for the cutoff switch. + +"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?" + +Shandor nodded. + +"What's the scoop, boy? How's the Rocket Project coming?" + +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?" + +Hart scowled impatiently. "No, no-- I mean the _scoop_. The real stuff. +How's the Project going?" + +"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--" + +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?" + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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? + +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-- + +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. + +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 _really_ +got a story to work on now--" + +Shandor blinked. "The War--" + +Hart took a deep breath. "Worse," he said. "David Ingersoll is dead." + + * * * * * + +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--?" + +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." + +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--" + +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." + +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." + +"But he can't be dead!" roared Shandor, his face flushed. "We just can't +_afford_ to have him dead--" + +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." + +"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--" + +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--" + +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--" + +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--" + +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 _really_ great man, and he was _wasted_, 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. _That's_ the truth--why not tell that to the people?" + +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." + +"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." + +With a little sigh John Hart reached into the desk. "That's very odd," +he said softly. "Because Ingersoll left a message for you--" + +Shandor snapped about, eyes wide. "Message--?" + +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." + +Shandor unfolded the thin paper, and blinked unbelieving: + + _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 believe that man alone is qualified to handle this assignment._ + + _(Signed) David P. Ingersoll + Secretary of State, + United States of America._ + + _4 June, 1981_ + +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. + +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." + +"Oh, yes," said Shandor softly. "I'll take it." + + * * * * * + +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--" + +Shandor snapped the radio off viciously, a roar of disgust rising in his +throat, cut off just in time. Lies, lies, lies. Some people _knew_ they +were lies--what could they really think? People like David Ingersoll's +wife-- + +Carefully he reined in his thoughts, channelled them. He had called the +Ingersoll home the night before, announcing his arrival this morning-- + +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." + +Shandor stepped from the cab, briefcase under his arm. He showed his +card, scowled when the officer continued shaking his head. "Orders say +_nobody_--" + +"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." + +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." + +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. + +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." + +Shandor looked at the paper, then back at her. "Yes, I'm Tom Shandor. +But you're not Mrs. Ingersoll--" + +"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." + +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--" + +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--" + +"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--" + +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--" + +Shandor shook his head unhappily. "No, no, that's not what I mean." + +"Then perhaps you'd tell me precisely what you _do_ mean?" Her voice was +clipped and hard. + +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--" + +"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 _great_ +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--" + +"Miss Ingersoll." + +She stopped in mid-sentence, her grey eyes veiled, and shook her head +slightly. "That's not what you want, either?" + +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." + +Her lips formed a sneer. "And _you're_ 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!" + +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." + +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." + +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." + +Shandor stared at her. "That's what you think," he said slowly. "This +story will get to the press if it kills me." + +The girl looked up at him, eyes wide, incredulous. "You _mean_ that, +don't you?" + +"I never meant anything more in my life." + +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 _do_ +it--give people a true story--" + +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." + +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--" + + * * * * * + +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?" + +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." + +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?" + +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." + +"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 _alone_? He knew my job, and he fought me and the PIB +every step of his career. Why a note like this?" + +She looked up at him. "Do you have any idea?" + +"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." + +She scowled. "It still doesn't wash. There are lots of +propagandists--and why would he want a propagandist?" + +Shandor's eyes narrowed. "Let's let it ride for a moment. How about his +files?" + +"In his office in the State Department." + +"He didn't keep anything personal at home?" + +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." + +"Of course. How about enemies? Did he have any particular enemies?" + +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." + +Shandor's eyes widened. "You mean you think he was murdered?" + +"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." + +Shandor was silent for a moment. "Any particular thorns in his side?" + +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." + +Shandor stared. "But if that conference fails, _we're in full-scale +war_!" + +"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. _It +killed him_, Tom!" + +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." + +She looked up, her eyes wide. "What--what are you going to do?" + +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--" + + * * * * * + +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. + +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." + +Shandor thought a moment. "Give me your newspaper files on David +Ingersoll, Secretary of State." + +"Through which dates, pleeyuz." + +"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. + +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. + +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. + +Finally, disgusted, Tom stuffed the notes into his briefcase, and +flipped down the librarian lever. "Sources, please." + +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?" + +"Yes. I've been reading the newspaper files on David Ingersoll. I'd like +the by-lines on this copy." + +There was a moment of silence. "Which dates, please?" + +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." + +"By whom?" + +"I'm sorry, no source is available. Perhaps the PIB offices could help +you--" + +"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?" + +"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--" + +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--" + +He scowled in annoyance. "Yes, yes, I know that. I want the writers +before I came." + +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." + +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?" + +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." + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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." + + * * * * * + +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. + +Hart scowled. "How's the biography coming?" + +"The biography's coming along fine. I want to know what kind of +quicksand I'm wading through, that's all." + +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?" + +"That's not enough time." Shandor's voice was tight. + +"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--" + +Shandor's eyes widened. "The Rocket Project--?" + +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 _get that story in_." He +snapped the switch down, leaving Shandor blinking at the darkened +screen. + +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. + +"The reading went lousy," he admitted sheepishly. "This the personal +file?" + +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--" + +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." + +She settled herself, and grinned. "Okay, boss. Fire away." + +He took a deep breath, and tiredness lined his face. "First off: what +did your father do before he went into politics?" + +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--" + +Shandor sat forward, his eyes bright. "Did he ever entertain any +business friends during that time--any that you can remember?" + +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." + +"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 _what_ he was doing, and how?" + +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--" + +Shandor looked up sharply. "But he hated it--" + +"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." + +"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?" + +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." + +"Would you say that they were enemies?" + +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--" + +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 _looks_ 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--" + +The girl leaned over the table, her grey eyes deep with concern. "Tom," +she said, almost in a whisper. "Suppose there _is_ something, Tom. +Something big, what's it going to do to _you_, Tom? You can't fight +anything as powerful as PIB, and these men that hated dad could break +you." + +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 _like_ 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--" + +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." + +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 _do_ +if he went to the Berlin Conference?" + +She shrugged helplessly. "The usual diplomatic fol-de-rol, I suppose. He +always--" + +"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." + +And then she was staring at Shandor, her face white, grey eyes wide. "Of +course he had something," she exclaimed. "He _must_ 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. _He knew something_ +that the conference doesn't know--" + +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. + +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-- + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. +_Why?_ Why had she strung him along, why had she even started to help +him? And why, above all, turn against her own father? + +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." + +"Prex, this is Shandor. Got a minute?" + +The voice was cordial. "Dozens of them. Where are you?" + +"I'll be up in your quarters." Shandor slammed down the receiver and +started for the elevator to the Resident Physicians' wing. + +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?" + +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. + +"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." + +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?" + +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." + +Prex scowled, and pointed to the burn. "This the man?" + +"That's the man." + +Prex put away the salve. "I suppose I'll help you, then. Is this +official, or grudge?" + +"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." + +Prex grinned. "You say it's all right, it's all right. When?" + +Shandor glanced at his watch. "About 3:00 this morning, I think. We can +take your car." + +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. + + * * * * * + +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--" + +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. + +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." + +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?" + +"I've come for the files." + +The little man scowled. "You've come to the wrong man. I don't have any +files." + +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?" + +"I--I don't know--" + +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?" + +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." + +"What do you know about Harry Dartmouth?" + +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 '_Fighting +World_.' I do what he tells me." + +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?" + +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." + +"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--" + +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?" + +"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--" + +"So he hired his little pixie, eh? Seems to me you'd have enough on your +hands editing that rag--" + +Mariel shot him an injured look. "'_Fighting World_' has the second +largest magazine circulation in the country. It's a good magazine." + +"It's a warmonger propaganda rag," snapped Shandor. He glared at the +little man. "What's your relation to Ingersoll?" + +"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--" + +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." + +Mariel's eyes opened wide. "What do you mean?" + +"Everything you wrote for PIB seems to have treated him kindly." + +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." + +"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?" + +"No, no--" + +"You know damned well you've heard of them. Because _those men were all +you_. 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--" + +"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?" + +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--" + +"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?" + +"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--" + +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?" + +The little man twisted his hands, almost in tears. "Harry Dartmouth told +me--" + +"And who told Harry Dartmouth?" + +Mariel's voice was so weak it could hardly be heard. "The girl," he +said. + +Shandor felt the chill deepen. "And where are the files now?" + +"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--" + +Shandor clenched his fist. "Where are Dartmouth's plants located?" + +"The main plants are in Chicago and Newark. They've got a smaller one in +Nevada." + +"And what do they make?" + +"In peacetime--cars. In wartime they make tanks and shells." + +"And their records? Inventories? Shipping orders, and files? Where do +they keep them?" + +"I--I don't know. You aren't thinking of--" + +"Never mind what I'm thinking of, just answer up. Where are they?" + +"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." + +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." + + * * * * * + +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 _any_ +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, _no one_ 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-- + +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-- + +He sat bolt upright. It _had_ to be true-- + +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-- + +"--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. + +"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 +_have_ to have the files. His whole body was wet with perspiration as he +reached the landing field. + +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." + +Shandor blinked. "Drop the story? You're crazy!" + +"_Get in here!_" roared Hart. "From now on you've _really_ got a job. +The Berlin Conference blew up tonight, Tom--high as a kite. _We're at +war with Russia--_" + +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. +_Then_ back to PIB, maybe. + +He found a booth in the Library, and began hunting, time pressing him +into frantic speed. The idea was incredible, but it _had_ 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. + +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. + +David P. Ingersoll, becoming, in 1958, the executive president of +Dartmouth Bearing Corporation.... + + * * * * * + +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. + +"Anything happen since I left, Prex?" + +"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?" + +"Plenty," growled Shandor bitterly. "But you'll have to read it in the +newspapers." He flipped off the connection before Prex could reply. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +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. + +"Tom! Oh, Tom, I was afraid-- Oh, _Tom_!" Suddenly she was in his arms +sobbing, pressing her face against his shirt front. "Oh, I'm so glad to +see you, Tom--" + +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." + +"Tom--I--I _wanted_ 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--" + +"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." + +She stared at him tearfully, shaking her head from side to side, +searching for words. "I--I didn't want that--" + +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 want those files._ 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." + +She stared at him. "What do you mean--about my precious father--?" + +"Your precious father was at the bottom of the whole slimy mess." + +"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--" + +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?" + +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." + +Shandor's jaw dropped. "Now, wait a minute," he said softly. "You gave +me the briefcase, Mariel snatched it and nearly killed me--" + +"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." + +His knees walked out from under him, then, and he sank into a chair. +"You've got them here, then," he said weakly. + +"Yes. I have them here." + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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-- + +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-- + +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-- + +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-- + +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-- + +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, _protect_ her, somehow. She didn't +know, she _couldn't_ 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 _helped_ them, but he also knew that the +evidence, somehow, was wrong, that somehow, he still didn't have the +whole picture-- + +She looked at him, her voice trembling. "You're wrong, Tom," she said. + +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." + +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 _good_ 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." + +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 +_got to be told_. 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." + +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-- + +_Where they made only_ shells-- + +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-- + +"Washington!" Her voice was small, infinitely frightened. + +"Yes. That's Washington." + +"Then it really _has_ started." She turned to him with eyes wide with +horror, and snuggled up to his chest like a frightened child. "Oh, +Tom--" + +"It's here. What we've been waiting for. What your father started could +never be stopped any other way than this--" + +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." + +She was crying, great sobs shaking her shoulders. "You're wrong, you're +wrong--oh, Tom, you must be wrong--" + +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?" + +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." + + * * * * * + +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. + +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. + +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--" + +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." + +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--" + +Shandor thought quickly. "This is a Federal Security ship," he snapped. +"I'm just on a reconnaissance--" + +The voice was cautious. "Security? What's your corroboration number?" + +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. + +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-- + +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-- + +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. + +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-- + +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 _knew what he +was looking at_-- + +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-- + +And his head suddenly exploded into a million dazzling lights as he sank +unconscious to the ground-- + + * * * * * + +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. + +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?" + +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?" + +"Long enough." The man pulled out a plug of tobacco, ripped off a chunk +with his teeth. "Chew?" + +"I smoke." Shandor fished for cigarettes in an empty pocket. + +"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?" + +Shandor eyed the unlocked door, and turned his eyes to the huge man. +"Sure," he said. "What do you want to talk about?" + +"I don't want to talk about nothin'," the big man replied, +indifferently. "Thought you might, though." + +"Are you the one that roughed me up?" + +"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." + +Memory flooded back, and Shandor's eyes widened. "Yes--they followed me +all the way from Lincoln--what happened to them?" + +Baker grinned and chomped his tobacco. "They're a long way away now. +Don't worry about them." + +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?" + +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?" + +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." + +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-- + +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-- + +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--" + +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. + + * * * * * + +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." + +"Yes. I'm alive." + +"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." + +The old man nodded tiredly. "That's right. Just a fake." + +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--_why_? What's it going to get you? This +war, this whole rotten intrigue mess, and then _this_?" + +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--_first_. Before anybody else." + +"But why _here_? They're building a rocket there in Arizona. They'll be +up here in a few days, maybe a few weeks--" + +"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." + +"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 _me_ here, of all +people? What do you want with me?" + +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." + +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--" + +"But you don't know the game--" + +"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!" + +"Once upon a time," Ingersoll interrupted quietly, "there was a fox." + +Shandor stopped and stared at him. + +"--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?" + +Shandor shook his head silently. + +"It was a very simple solution," said Ingersoll. "Drastic, but simple. +_He gnawed off his leg._" + +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. + +"So he chewed off his leg," Shandor repeated dully. "I don't get it." + +"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." + +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." + +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--" + +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." + +Shandor looked up, a deep frown on his face. "You're trying to say that +they needed a new frontier." + +"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. + +"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 _stop infection--fast_. 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--" + +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 _in time_. +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. + +"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 _any_ 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, _somewhere or +anywhere_ 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 _ultimate_ 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." + +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?" + +"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 _not_ 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 +_first_. 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 _all_ 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." + +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--" + +"You have Mariel," said Shandor. "He's had the work, the experience--" + +"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 '_Fighting World_.' 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 +_knew_ you were the man we had to have--" + +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?" + +"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." + +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?" + +"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." + +"And if I don't go along with you?" + +"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." + +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-- + +"I don't know," he muttered. "I just don't know--" + + * * * * * + +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. + +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-- + +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-- + + * * * * * + +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-- + +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. + +"You saw it?" whispered Mariel in the darkness. "You saw it, David?" + +"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. + +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. + +"They're coming," he said. + + + + +Transcriber's Note: + + This etext was produced from _Fantastic Universe_ 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. + + + + + +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.txt or 31094.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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