"Heading out toward mid-Pacific. I headed south, to Mexico, first. We're
over open water now, headed toward Baja California, so I put on the
autopilot. As soon as we get out over the ocean, we can really make
time. You can watch the sun come up in the west."
"And then?" Elshawe felt dazed.
"And then we head straight up. For empty space."
Elshawe closed his eyes again. He didn't even want to think about it.
* * * * *
"... As you no doubt heard," Terrence Elshawe dictated into the phone,
"Malcom Porter made good his threat to take a spaceship of his own
devising to the Moon. Ham radios all over North America picked up his
speech, which was made by spreading the beam from an eighty-foot
diameter parabolic reflector and aiming it at Earth from a hundred
thousand miles out. It was a collapsible reflector, made of thin foil,
like the ones used on space stations. Paragraph.
"He announced that the trip was made with the co-operation of the United
States Space Force, and that it represented a major breakthrough in the
conquest of space. He--"
"Just a sec," Winstein's voice broke in. "Is that the truth? Was he
really working with the Space Force?"
"Hell, no," said Elshawe. "But they'll have to claim he was now. Let me
go on."
"Shoot."
"... He also beamed a message to the men on Moon Base One, telling them
that from now on they would be able to commute back and forth from Luna
to Earth, just as simply as flying from New York to Detroit. Paragraph.
"What followed was even more astounding. At tremendous acceleration,
Malcom Porter and Terrence Elshawe, your reporter, headed for Mars.
Inside Porter's ship, there is no feeling of acceleration except for a
steady, one-gee pull which makes the passenger feel as though he is on
an ordinary airplane, even though the spaceship may be accelerating at
more than a hundred gravities. Paragraph.
"Porter's ship circled Mars, taking photographs of the Red Planet--the
first close-ups of Mars to be seen by the human race. Then, at the same
tremendous rate of speed, Porter's ship returned to Earth. The entire
trip took less than thirty-six hours. According to Porter, improved
ships should be able to cut that time down considerably. Paragraph."
[Illustration]
"Have you got those pics?" Winstein cut in.
"Sure. Porter gave me an exclusive in return for socking me. It was
worth it. Remember back in the Twenties, when the newspapermen talked
about a scoop? Well, we've got the biggest scoop of the century."
"Maybe," said Winstein. "The Government hasn't made any announcement
yet. Where's Porter?"
"Under arrest, where'd you think? After announcing that he would land on
his New Mexico ranch, he did just that. As soon as he stepped out, a
couple of dozen Government agents grabbed him. Violation of parole--he
left the state without notifying his parole officer. But they couldn't
touch me, and they knew it.
"Here's another bit of news for your personal information. A bomb went
off inside the ship after it landed and blew the drive to smithereens.
The only information is inside Porter's head. He's got the Government
where the short hair grows."
"Looks like it. See here, Terry; you get all the information you can and
be back here by Saturday. You're going to go on the Weekend Report."
"Me? I'm no actor. Let Maxon handle it."
"No. This is hot. You're an eye-witness. Maxon will interview you.
Understand?"
"O.K.; you're the boss, Ole. Anything else?"
"Not right now, but if anything more comes up, call in."
"Right. 'Bye." He hung up and leaned back in his chair, cocking his feet
up on the desk. It was Malcom Porter's desk and Malcom Porter's chair.
He was sitting in the Big Man's office, just as though he owned it. His
jaw still hurt a little, but he loved every ache of it. It was hard to
remember that he had ever been angry with Porter.
Just before they had landed, Porter had said: "They'll arrest me, of
course. I knew that when I left. But I think I can get out of it. There
will be various kinds of Government agents all over the place, but they
won't find anything. I've burned all my notebooks.
"I'll instruct my attorney that you're to have free run of the place so
that you can call in your story."
* * * * *
The phone rang. Elshawe grabbed up the receiver and said: "Malcom
Porter's residence." He wished that they had visiphones out in the
country; he missed seeing the face of the person he was talking to.
"Let me talk to Mr. Terrence Elshawe, please," said the voice at the
other end. "This is Detective Lieutenant Martin of the Los Angeles
Police Department."
"This is me, Marty."
"Good! Boy, have I had trouble getting to you! I had to make it an
official call before the phone company would put the call through. How
does it feel to be notorious?"
"Great. What's new?"
"I got the dope on that Skinner fellow. I suppose you still want it? Or
has success gone to your head?"
Elshawe had almost forgotten about Skinner. "Shoot," he said.
The police officer rattled off Samuel Skinner's vital statistics--age,
sex, date and place of birth, and so on. Then: "He lived in New York
until 1977. Taught science for fifteen years at a prep school there.
He--"
"Wait a second," Elshawe interrupted. "When was he born? Repeat that."
"March fourth, nineteen-thirty."
"Fifty-three," Elshawe said, musingly. "Older than he looks. O.K.; go
on."
"He retired in '77 and came to L.A. to live. He--"
"Retired at the age of forty-seven?" Elshawe asked incredulously.
"That's right. Not on a teacher's pension, though. He's got some kind of
annuity from a New York life insurance company. Pays pretty good, too.
He gets a check for two thousand dollars on the third of every month. I
checked with his bank on that. Nice, huh?"
"Very nice. Go on."
"He lives comfortably. No police record. Quiet type. One servant, a
Chinese, lives with him. Sort of combination of valet and secretary.
"As far as we can tell, he has made four trips in the past three years.
One in June of '79, one in June of '80, one in June of '81, and this
year he made the fourth one. In '79, he went to Silver City, New Mexico.
In '80 and '81, he went to Hawaii. This year, he went to Silver City
again. Mean anything to you?"
"Not yet," Elshawe said. "Are you paying for this call, or is the City
of Los Angeles footing the bill?"
"Neither. You are."
"Then shut up and let me think for a minute." After less than a minute,
he said: "Martin, I want some more data on that guy. I'm willing to pay
for it. Should I hire a private detective?"
"That's up to you. I can't take any money for it, naturally--but I'm
willing to nose around a little more for you if I can. On the other
hand, I can't put full time in on it. There's a reliable detective
agency here in L.A.-- Drake's the guy's name. Want me to get in touch
with him?"
"I'd appreciate it. Don't tell him who wants the information or that it
has any connection with Porter. Get--"
"Hold it, Terry ... just a second. You know that if I uncover any
indication of a crime, all bets are off. The information goes to my
superiors, not to you."
"I know. But I don't think there's any crime involved. You work it from
your end and send me the bills. O.K.?"
"Fair enough. What more do you want?"
Elshawe told him.
When the phone call had been completed, Elshawe sat back and made clouds
of pipe smoke, which he stared at contemplatively. Then he made two
calls to New York--one to his boss and another to a private detective
agency he knew he could trust.
* * * * *
The Malcom Porter case quickly became a _cause célèbre_. Somebody
goofed. Handled properly, the whole affair might have been hushed up;
the Government would have gotten what it wanted, Porter would have
gotten what _he_ wanted, and everyone would have saved face. But some
bureaucrat couldn't see beyond the outer surface of his spectacle
lenses, and some other bureaucrat failed to stop the thing in time.
"Gall, gall, and bitter, bitter wormwood," said Oler Winstein, perching
himself on the edge of Terry Elshawe's desk.
"You don't Gallic, bitter, wormy, or wooden. What's up?"
"Got a call from Senator Tallifero. He wants to know if you'll consent
to appear before the Joint Congressional Committee for Investigating
Military Affairs. I get the feeling that if you say 'no,' they'll send a
formal invitation--something on the order of a subpoena."
Elshawe sighed. "Oh, well. It's news, anyway. When do they want me to be
in Washington?"
"Tomorrow. Meanwhile, Porter, of course, is under arrest and in close
confinement. Confusion six ways from Sunday." He shook his head. "I
don't understand why they just didn't pat him on the back, say they'd
been working on this thing all along, and cover it up fast."
"Too many people involved," Elshawe said, putting his cold pipe in the
huge ashtray on his desk. "The Civil Aeronautics crowd must have had a
spotter up in those mountains; they had a warrant out for his arrest
within an hour after we took off. They also notified the parole board,
who put out an all-points bulletin immediately. The Army and the Air
Force were furious because he'd evaded their radar net. Porter stepped
on so many toes so hard that it was inevitable that one or more would
yell before they realized it would be better to keep their mouths shut."
"Well, you get up there and tell your story, and I dare say he'll come
out of it."
"Sure he will. They know he's got something, and they know they have to
have it. But he's going to go through hell before they give it to him."
Winstein slid off the desk and stood up. "I hope so. He deserves it. By
the way, it's too bad you couldn't get a story out of that Sam Skinner
character."
"Yeah. But there's nothing to it. After all, even the FBI tried to find
out if there was anyone at all besides Porter who might know anything
about it. No luck. Not even the technicians who worked with him knew
anything useful. Skinner didn't know anything at all." He told the lie
with a perfectly straight face. He didn't like lying to Winstein, but
there was no other way. He hoped he wouldn't have to lie to the
Congressional Committee; perjury was not something he liked doing. The
trouble was, if he told the truth, he'd be worse off than if he lied.
He took the plane that night for Washington, and spent the next three
days answering questions while he tried to keep his nerves under
control. Not once did they even approach the area he wanted them to
avoid.
On the plane back, he relaxed, closed his eyes, and, for the first time
in days, allowed himself to think about Mr. Samuel Skinner.
* * * * *
The reports from the two detective agencies on the East and West Coasts
hadn't made much sense separately, but together they added up to enough
to have made it worth Elshawe's time to go to Los Angeles and tackle
Samuel Skinner personally. He had called Skinner and made an
appointment; Skinner had invited him out to his home.
It was a fairly big house, not too new, and it sat in the middle of a
lot that was bigger than normal for land-hungry Los Angeles.
Elshawe ran through the scene mentally. He could see Skinner's mild face
and hear his voice saying: "Come in, Mr. Elshawe."
They went into the living room, and Skinner waved him toward a chair.
"Sit down. Want some coffee?"
"Thanks; I'd appreciate it." While Skinner made coffee, the reporter
looked around the room. It wasn't overly showy, but it showed a sort of
subdued wealth. It was obvious that Mr. Skinner wasn't lacking in
comforts.
Skinner brought in the coffee and then sat down, facing Elshawe, in
another chair. "Now," he said bluntly, "what was that remark you made on
the phone about showing up Malcom Porter as a phony? I understood that
you actually went to Mars on his ship. Don't you believe the evidence of
your own senses?"
"I don't mean that kind of phony," Elshawe said. "And you know it. I'll
come to the point. I know that Malcom Porter didn't invent the
Gravito-Inertial Differential Polarizer. _You_ did."