The visiphone rang.
It was the phone with the unregistered number, a direct line that didn't
go through his secretary's switchboard.
He flipped it on. "Yes?" He never bothered to identify himself on that
phone; anyone who had the number knew who they were calling. The
mild-looking, plumpish, blond-haired man whose face came onto the screen
was immediately recognizable.
"How's everything, Mr. Bending?" he asked with cordial geniality.
"Fine, Mr. Trask," Bending answered automatically. "And you?"
"Reasonable, reasonable. I hear you had the police out your way this
morning." There was a questioning look in his round blue eyes. "No
trouble, I hope."
Sam understood the question behind the statement. Vernon Trask was the
go-between for some of the biggest black market operators in the
country. Bending didn't like to have to deal with him, but one had very
little choice these days.
"No. No trouble. Burglary in the night. Someone opened my safe and
picked up a few thousand dollars, is all."
"I see." Trask was obviously wondering whether some black market
operator would be approached by a couple of burglars in the next few
days--a couple of burglars trying to peddle apparatus and equipment that
had been stolen from Bending. There still were crooks who thought that
the black market dealt in stolen goods of that sort.
"Some of my instruments were smashed," Bending said, "but none of them
are missing."
"I'm glad to hear that," Trask said. And Bending knew he meant it. The
black market boys didn't like to have their customers robbed of
scientific equipment; it might reflect back on them. "I just thought I'd
explain about missing our appointment this morning," Trask went on. "It
was unavoidable; something unexpected came up."
Trask was being cagey, as always. He didn't talk directly, even over a
phone that wasn't supposed to be tapped. Bending understood, though.
Some of the robotics equipment he'd contracted to get from Trask was
supposed to have been delivered that morning, but when the delivery
agent had seen the police car out front, he'd kept right on going
naturally enough.
"That's all right, Mr. Trask," Bending said. "What with all this trouble
this morning, it actually slipped my mind. Another time, perhaps."
Trask nodded. "I'll try to make arrangements for a later date. Thanks a
lot, Mr. Bending. Good-by."
Bending said good-by and cut the connection.
Samson Bending didn't like being forced to buy from the black market
operators, but there was nothing else to do if one wanted certain pieces
of equipment. During the "Tense War" of the late Sixties, the Federal
and State governments had gone into a state of near-panic. The war that
had begun in the Near East had flashed northwards to ignite the eternal
Powder Keg of Europe. But there were no alliances, no general war; there
were only periodic armed outbreaks, each one in turn threatening to turn
into World War III. Each country found itself agreeing to an armistice
with one country while trying to form an alliance with a second and
defending itself from or attacking a third.
And yet, during it all, no one quite dared to use the Ultimate Weapons.
There was plenty of strafing by fighter planes and sorties by small
bomber squadrons, but there was none of the "massive retaliation" of
World War II. There could be heard the rattle of small-arms fire and the
rumble of tanks and the roar of field cannon, but not once was there the
terrifying, all-enveloping blast of nuclear bombs.
But, at the time, no one knew that it wouldn't happen. The United
States and the Soviet Union hovered on the edges of the war, two colossi
who hesitated to interfere directly for fear they would have to come to
grips with each other.
The situation made the "Brinksmanship" of former Secretary Dulles look
as safe as loafing in an easy-chair.
And the bureaucratic and legislative forces of the United States
Government had reacted in a fairly predictable manner. The "security"
guards around scientific research, which had been gradually diminishing
towards the vanishing point, had suddenly been re-imposed--this time,
even more stringently and rigidly than ever before.
Coupled with this was another force--apparently unrelated--which acted
to tie in with the Federal security regulations. The juvenile delinquent
gangs had begun to realize the value of science. Teen-age hoodlums armed
with homemade pistols were dangerous enough in the Fifties; add aimed
rockets and remote-control bombs to their armories, and you have an
almost uncontrollable situation. Something had to be done, and various
laws controlling the sale of scientific apparatus had been passed by the
fifty states. And--as with their liquor and divorce laws--no two of the
states had the same set of laws, and no one of them was without gaping
flaws.
By the time the off-again-on-again wars in Europe had been stilled by
the combined pressure of the United Nations--in which the United States
and the Soviet Union co-operated wholeheartedly, working together in a
way they had not done for over twenty years--the "scientific control
laws" in the United States had combined to make scientific research
almost impossible for the layman, and a matter of endless red tape,
forms-in-octuplicate, licenses, permits, investigations, delays, and
confusion for the professional.
The answer, of course, was the black market. What bootlegging had done
for the average citizen in the Twenties, the black market was doing for
scientists fifty years later.
The trouble was that, unlike the Volstead Act, the scientific
prohibitions aroused no opposition from the man in the street. Indeed,
he rather approved of them. He needed and wanted the products of
scientific research, but he had a vague fear of the scientist--the
"egghead." To his way of thinking, the laws were cleverly-designed
restrictions promulgated by that marvelous epitome of humanity, the
common man, to keep the mysterious scientists from meddling with things
they oughtn't to.
The result was that the Latin American countries went into full swing,
producing just those items which North American scientists couldn't get
their hands on, because the laws stayed on the books. During the next
ten years, they were modified slightly, but only very slightly; but the
efforts to enforce them became more and more lax. By the time the late
Seventies and early Eighties rolled around, the black marketeers were
doing very nicely, thank you, and any suggestion from scientists that
the laws should be modified was met with an intensive counterpropaganda
effort by the operators of the black market.
Actually, the word "operators" is a misnomer. It was known by the
authorities at the time that there was only one ring operating; the
market was too limited to allow for the big-time operations carried on
by the liquor smugglers and distillers of half a century before.
Sam Bending naturally was forced to deal with the black market, just as
everyone else engaged in research was; it was, for instance, the only
source for a good many technical publications which had been put on the
Restricted List. Sam wasn't as dependent on them as college and
university research men were, simply because he was engaged in
industrial work, which carried much higher priorities than educational
work did.
Sam, however, was fed up with the whole mess, and would have given his
eyeteeth to clear up the whole stupid farce.
* * * * *
Irritated by every petty distraction at his office, Sam Bending finally
gave up trying to cope with anything for the rest of the day. At three
in the afternoon, he told his secretary that he was going home, jammed
his hat on his head, and went out to his car.
He got in, turned the switch, and listened to the deep hum of the
electric motors inside. Somehow, it made him feel so good that the
irritations of the day lessened a great deal. He grinned.
Power Utilities hadn't even thought of this hiding place. The Converter
in the rear of the car gave the vehicle far more power than it needed,
but the extra juice came in handy sometimes. The driving motors wouldn't
take the full output of the generators, of course; the Converter hardly
had to strain itself to drive the automobile at top speed, and, as long
as there was traction, no grade could stall the car. Theoretically, it
could climb straight up a wall.
Not that Sam Bending had any intention of climbing a wall with it.
He even had power left over for the sound-effects gadget and the
air-heater that made the thing appear to be powered by an ordinary
turbo-electric engine. He listened and smiled as the motors made
satisfying sounds while he pulled out of the parking lot and into the
street. He kept that pleased, self-satisfied grin on his face for six
blocks.
And then he began to notice that someone was following him.
At first, he hadn't paid much attention to it. The car was just a common
Ford Cruiser of the nondescript steel blue color that was so popular.
But Bending had been conscious of its presence for several blocks. He
looked carefully in the mirror.
Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it had been several cars of that same color
that had moved in and out of the traffic behind him. Well, he'd soon
see.
He kept on going toward the North-South Expressway, and kept watching
the steel-blue Ford, glancing at his rear view mirror every time he
could afford to take his eyes off the traffic.
It moved back and forth, but it was never more than three cars behind
him, and usually only one. Coincidence? Possibly.
At Humber Avenue, he turned left and drove southwards. The steel-blue
Ford turned, too. Coincidence? Still possible.
He kept on going down Humber Avenue for ten blocks, until he came to the
next cross street that would take him to a lower entrance to the
North-South Expressway. He turned right, and the Ford followed.
At the ramp leading to the northbound side of the Expressway, the Ford
was two cars behind.
Coincidence? No. That's pushing coincidence too far. If the men in the
car had actually intended to go north on the Expressway, they would have
gone on in the direction they had been taking when Bending first noticed
them; they wouldn't have gone ten blocks south out of their way.
Bending's smile became grim. He had never liked the idea of being
followed around, and, since the loss of one of his Converters, he was
even touchier about the notion. Trouble was, his fancy, souped-up
Lincoln was of no use to him at all. He could outrun them on a clear
highway--but not on the crowded Expressway. Or, conversely, he could
just keep on driving until they were forced to stop for fuel--but that
could be a long and tedious trip if they had a full tank. And besides,
they might make other arrangements before they went dry.
Well, there was another way.
He stayed on the Expressway for the next twenty miles, going far north
of where he had intended to turn off. At the Marysville Exit, he went
down the ramp. He had been waiting for a moment when the Ford would be a
little farther behind than normal, but it hadn't come; at each exit, the
driver of the trailing car would edge up, although he allowed himself to
drop behind between exits. Whoever was driving the car knew what he was
doing.
At the bottom of the ramp, Bending made a left turn and took the road
into Marysville. It was a small town, not more than five or six thousand
population, but it was big enough.
There weren't many cars on the streets that led off the main highway.
Bending made a right turn and went down one of the quiet boulevards in
the residential section. The steel-blue Ford dropped behind as they
turned; they didn't want to make Bending suspicious, evidently.
He came to a quiet street parallel to the highway and made a left turn.
As soon as he was out of sight of his pursuers, he shoved down on the
accelerator. The car jumped ahead, slamming Bending back in his seat.
At the next corner, he turned left again. A glance in the mirror showed
him that the Ford was just turning the previous corner.
Bending's heavy Lincoln swung around the corner at high speed and shot
back toward the highway. At the next corner, he cut left once more, and
the mirror showed that the Ford hadn't made it in time to see him turn.
They'd probably guess he'd gone left, so he made a right turn as soon as
he hit the next street, and then made another left, then another right.
Then he kept on going until he got to the highway.
A left turn put him back on the highway, headed toward the Expressway.
The steel-blue car was nowhere in sight.
Bending sighed and headed back south towards home.
* * * * *
Sam Bending knew there was something wrong when he pulled up in front of
his garage and pressed the button on the dashboard that was supposed to
open the garage door. Nothing happened.
He climbed out of the car, went over to the door of the garage, and
pushed the emergency button. The door remained obstinately shut.
Without stopping to wonder what had happened, he sprinted around to the
front door of the house, unlocked it, and pressed the wall switch. The
lights didn't come on, and he knew what had happened.
Trailing a stream of blue invective, he ran to the rear of the house and
went down the basement stairs. Sure enough. Somebody had taken his house
Converter, too.
And they hadn't even had the courtesy to shunt him back onto the power
lines.
At his home, he had built more carefully than he had at the lab. He had
rigged in a switch which would allow him to use either the Converter or
the regular power sources, so that he could work on the Converter if he
wanted to. His basement was almost a duplicate of his lab in the city,
except that at home he built gadgets just for the fun of watching them
work, while at the lab he was doing more serious research.
He went over to the cabinet where the switch was, opened it, and punched
the relay button. The lights came on.
He stalked back up the stairs and headed for the visiphone. First, he
dialed his patent attorney's office; he needed some advice. If Power
Utilities had their hands on two out of three of his Converters, there
might be some trouble over getting the patents through.
The attorney's secretary said he wasn't in, and she didn't know if he
expected to be back that day. It was, she informed Bending rather
archly, nearly five in the afternoon. Bending thanked her and hung up.
He dialed the man's home, but he wasn't there, either.
Sam Bending stuck a cigarette in his mouth, fired it up, walked over to
his easy-chair and sat down to think.
According to the police, the first Converter had been stolen on Friday
night. The second one had obviously been taken sometime this morning,
while he was in the lab with the police.
That made sense. The first one they'd tried to open had fused, so they
decided to try to get a second one. Only how had they known he had had
more than one? He hadn't told anyone that he had three--or even two.
Well, no matter. They _had_ found out. The question was, what did he do
next? Inform the police of the two thefts or--
There was a car pulling up outside the house.
Sam stood up and glanced out the window. It was a steel-blue Ford.
By Heaven! Did they intend to steal the third Converter, too? And right
in front of his eyes, before it even got decently dark?
Sam was so furious that he couldn't even think straight. When the two
men climbed out of the car and started walking toward the house, Sam ran
back into his study, pulled open his desk drawer, and took out the .38
Special he kept there. It was the work of seconds to thumb six
cartridges into the chambers and swing the cylinder shut.
The door chime sounded.
* * * * *
Sam went back into the front room with the revolver in his jacket pocket
and his hand ready to fire it.
"Who is it?" he called, in what he hoped was a steady voice.
"We're Special Agents of the FBI," said a voice. "May we see you for a
few moments, Mr. Bending?"
"Certainly. Come on in; the door's unlocked." _Just walk in, you
phonies! Just trot right on in, he thought._
And they did. The two men walked in, removing their hats as they did so.
"We--" one of them began. He stopped when he saw that he was addressing
a round, black hole that was only a fraction more than a third of an
inch in diameter but looked much, _much_ larger from his viewpoint.
"Get your hands in the air and turn around very slowly," said Bending.
"Lean forward and brace your hands against the wall."
They did as they were told. Bending frisked them carefully and
thoroughly, thankful that the two years he had spent in the Army hadn't
been completely wasted. Neither one of them was carrying a gun.
Bending stepped back and pocketed his own weapon. "All right. You two
can turn around now. If you want to try anything, come ahead--but I
don't advise it."
The two men turned around. Neither of them was exactly a small man, but
the two of them together didn't outweigh Samson Bending by more than
fifty pounds.
"What's the idea of the gun, Mr. Bending?" the taller of the two asked.
He seemed to be the spokesman for the team.
"I'll ask the questions," Bending said. "But first, I want to tell you
that, in the first place, you can get in trouble for impersonating a
Federal officer, and, in the second, I don't like being followed. So you
just trot right back to the boys at Power Utilities and tell them that
if they want to play rough, I am perfectly willing to do likewise. That
if they come after me again, I'm going to do some very unpleasant
things. Understand?"
"I think we understand," said the spokesman, still relatively unruffled.
"But I don't think _you_ do. Would you care to look at our credentials,
Mr. Bending?"
"Credentials?" Sam looked startled. Had he made a mistake?
"That's right. May I take my billfold out?"