There was nothing he could do. If he objected, they'd know who
gimmicked the tape. Well, no matter. They'd know how Berin Klythe had
died, but they wouldn't know who had done it.
He was in hot water, and he knew it, but he wasn't licked yet.
* * * * *
If only he hadn't tried to play his part so well! If only he'd gone
straight to the control room instead of down below! Nothing to do about
it now, he told himself. He couldn't waste time wishing he'd done
something else; he had to see what could be done next.
Two hours later, the big jet job carrying the special Executive
inquiry board landed on the roof of North American Sub-nucleonics.
Crayley himself had to do all the honors. As Acting Director, he had
to play host to the men who were--although they did not know it
yet--investigating the murder of Berin Klythe.
That was the way Crayley thought of it. The fact that four other men
had died with Klythe was immaterial; it meant nothing in the final
analysis.
Crayley decided that his best bet was to mislead them. When they saw
the extra operation at the end of the tape, he'd do his best to make
them think it was a case of sabotage. Someone--probably South Asian
Generators, Unltd.--had sent a man in to wreck the unit. Or perhaps
bribed one of the technicians. South Asian was perennially trying to
get the Space Force contract.
They used the model for the investigation run. The technicians tore it
down and placed it on the table. Crayley tried to get to the control
panel to run the tape through, hoping he could jab the erase button as
soon as the tape was through and the model built, but Fenwick Greene
was there ahead of him.
They switched the secondary control over to the experimental room. Half
of the inquiry board went there to watch the process first-hand, while
the other half watched it from the screens in the control room. They
had cameras watching it from every angle this time; they didn't miss a
thing.
Greene started the tape and watched closely, his eyes darting from
screen to screen as the generator dummy took shape.
Greene's eyes missed nothing. There was actually no necessity for
the dummy to be there, as far as he was concerned; he could read the
motions of a set of secondaries as accurately as an average man could
read a page of print. What appeared to be meaningless wavings in empty
air were deft, purposeful action to Fenwick Greene. Mentally, he could
see every component as the fingers grasped it. But the inquiry board
could work better with a model actually on the board.
Finally it was over. The secondaries fell to the ready position.
Crayley had five minutes to get to that erase button.
Fenwick Greene didn't move from the control panel.
"Gentlemen," he said, "that was a beautiful job. I don't think that
even I could improve on it much. In my opinion, there is no reason
why that unit should have blown." He paused, looking at one of the
designers. "Unless, of course, there is something amiss in the theory
or design. That, naturally, is out of my province."
There was discussion back and forth among the men.
Crayley's nerves tightened as the minutes slipped away. Would that fool
Greene never step away from the control board, even for a minute? Why
didn't he shut the damned thing off?
He finally gave up and forced himself to relax. It was too late now.
He'd have to talk fast.
"Look!" one of the men snapped. He was pointing at one of the screens.
Right on schedule, the waldo's arm reached up, grabbed the regulator
coil housing, and ripped it off.
There was an excited babble of voices, and Crayley forced himself to
look as flabbergasted as the rest.
The hand dropped down again to the ready position.
Crayley turned to Greene and started to say something that would keep
the board's mind on the sabotage track, but he noticed that everyone
was looking at the screen again. He swiveled his head around.
The secondary hand had lifted into the air. It extended its forefinger
and made meaningless motions.
Crayley's jaw muscles tightened. What the devil did it mean? How had
_that_ got on the tape?
The hand dropped. There came a faint chime which signaled the end of
the tape.
"Let's run through that again," said Fenwick Greene, an odd note in his
voice.
Crayley didn't understand. Had the shrewd, calculating eyes of Fenwick
Greene read meaning into that meaningless movement?
Again the hand lifted into the air, extended a finger, and moved it.
Then it dropped.
Crayley started to move his own hand, and stopped it in mid-air. He
knew in that instant what the gesture was.
The rest were talking, buzzing among themselves; no one was looking at
him yet. Only Fenwick Greene gave him a short, sharp glance.
Greene ran the tape back through for a third replay, and watched the
hand lift again.
Crayley stared at it as if hypnotized. His mind was a mass of
self-hatred. Fool! Fool! _Clumsy fool!_ This was it; this was the
end of everything. It wouldn't take them long now--they'd at least
have enough evidence to use a lie probe on him. Someone would see it.
Someone would see how Lewis Crayley's subconscious mind had betrayed
him when he'd made the recording.
Fenwick Greene saw it. His eyes moved from the screen to Crayley's face.
"You," he said very softly. "You're the only one who has one."
And Crayley knew he was right. If there had been a head on the waldo,
they'd have understood instantly.
The finger was stroking an invisible mustache.