"I want a Cadillac or Lincoln," I said. "A new one--not the one you
rent for funerals--and a driver who won't mind missing a couple nights'
sleep. And put a bed pillow and a blanket in the car."
I went down to the coffee room then for a light meal. I had just
finished a cigarette when the car arrived--a dark blue heavyweight
with a high polish and a low silhouette.
"We're going to Denver," I told the driver. "We'll make one stop
tomorrow--I have a little shopping to do. I figure about twenty hours.
Take a break every hundred miles, and hold it under seventy."
He nodded. I got in the back and sank down in the smell of expensive
upholstery.
"I'll cross town and pick up U.S. 84 at--"
"I leave the details to you," I said. He pulled out into the traffic
and I got the pillow settled under me and closed my eyes. I'd need all
the rest I could get on this trip. I'd heard that compared with the
Denver Records Center, Fort Knox was a cinch. I'd find out for sure
when I got there.
* * * * *
The plan I had in mind wasn't the best I could have concocted under
more leisurely circumstances. But with every cop in the country under
orders to shoot me on sight, I had to move fast. My scheme had the
virtue of unlikeliness. Once I was safe in the Central Vault--supposed
to be the only H-bomb-proof structure ever built--I'd put through a
phone call to the outside, telling them to watch a certain spot; say
the big desk in the President's office. Then I'd assemble my matter
transmitter and drop some little item right in front of the assembled
big shots. They'd have to admit I had something. And this time they'd
have to start considering the possibility that I wasn't working for the
enemy.
It had been a smooth trip, and I'd caught up on my sleep. Now it was
five A.M. and we were into the foothills, half an hour out of Denver.
I ran over my lines, planning the trickiest part of the job ahead--the
initial approach. I'd listened to a couple of news broadcasts. The FBI
was still promising an arrest within hours. I learned that I was lying
up, or maybe dead, in the vicinity of Key West, and that the situation
was under control. That was fine with me. Nobody would expect me to pop
up in Denver, still operating under my own power--and wearing a new
suit at that.
The Records Center was north of the city, dug into mountainside.
I steered my chauffeur around the downtown section, out a street
lined with dark hamburger joints and unlit gas stations to where a
side road branched off. We pulled up. From here on, things might get
dangerous--if I was wrong about how easy it was all going to be. I
brushed across the driver's mind. He set the brake and got out.
"Don't know how I came to run out of gas, Mr. Brown," he said
apologetically. "We just passed a station but it was closed. I guess
I'll just have to hike back into town. I sure am sorry; I never did
that before."
I told him it was okay, watched as he strode off into the pre-dawn
gloom, then got into the front seat and started up. The gate of the
Reservation surrounding the Record Center was only a mile away now. I
drove slowly, feeling ahead for opposition. There didn't seem to be
any. Things were quiet as a poker player with a pat hand. My timing was
good.
* * * * *
I stopped in front of the gate, under a floodlight and the watchful eye
of an M.P. with a shiny black tommygun held at the ready. He didn't
seem surprised to see me. I rolled down the window as he came over to
the car.
"I have an appointment inside, Corporal," I said. I touched his mind.
"The password is 'hot-point'."
He nodded, stepped back, and motioned me in. I hesitated. This was
almost too easy. I reached out again....
"_... middle of the night ... password ... nice car ... I wish...._"
I pulled through the gate and headed for the big parking lot, picking
a spot in front of a ramp that led down to a tall steel door. There was
no one in sight. I got out, dragging my suitcase. It was heavier now,
with the wire and magnets I'd added. I crossed the drive, went up to
the doors. The silence was eerie.
I swept the area, searching for minds, found nothing. The shielding, I
decided, blanked out everything.
There was a personnel door set in the big panel, with a massive
combination lock. I leaned my head against the door and felt for the
mechanism, turning the dial right, left, right....
The lock opened. I stepped inside, alert.
Silence, darkness. I reached out, sensed walls, slabs of steel,
concrete, intricate mechanisms, tunnels deep in the ground....
But no personnel. That was surprising--but I wouldn't waste time
questioning my good luck. I followed a corridor, opened another door,
massive as a vault, passed more halls, more doors. My footsteps made
muffled echoes. I passed a final door and came into the heart of the
Records Center.
There were lights in the chamber around the grim, featureless periphery
of the Central Vault. I set the valise on the floor, sat on it and lit
a cigarette. So far, so good. The Records Center, I saw, had been
over-rated. Even without my special knowledge, a clever locksmith
could have come this far--or almost. But the Big Vault was another
matter. The great integrating lock that secured it would yield only to
a complex command from the computer set in the wall opposite the vault
door. I smoked my cigarette and, with eyes closed, studied the vault.
I finished the cigarette, stepped on it, went to the console, began
pressing keys, tapping out the necessary formulations. Half an hour
later I finished. There was a whine from a servo motor; a crimson light
flashed. I turned and saw the valve cycle open, showing a bright-lit
tunnel within.
* * * * *
I dragged my bag inside, threw the lever that closed the entry behind
me. A green light went on. I walked along the narrow passage, lined
with gray metal shelves stacked with gray steel tape drums, descended
steps, came into a larger chamber fitted out with bunks, a tiny galley,
toilet facilities, shelves stocked with food. There was a radio,
a telephone and a second telephone, bright red. That would be the
hot-line to Washington. This was the sanctum sanctorum, where the last
survivors could wait out the final holocaust--indefinitely.
I opened the door of a steel cabinet. Radiation suits, tools,
instruments. Another held bedding. I found a tape-player, tapes--even
a shelf of books. I found a first aid kit and gratefully gave myself a
hypo-spray jolt of neurite. My pains receded.
I went on to the next room; there were wash tubs, a garbage disposal
unit, a drier. There was everything here I needed to keep me alive
and even comfortable until I could convince someone up above that I
shouldn't be shot on sight.
A heavy door barred the way to the room beyond. I turned a wheel, swung
the door back, saw more walls lined with filing cabinets, a blank
facade of gray steel; and in the center of the room, alone on a squat
table--a yellow plastic case that any Sunday Supplement reader would
have recognized.
It was a Master Tape, the Utter Top Secret Programming document that
would direct the terrestrial defense in case of a Gool invasion.
It was almost shocking to see it lying there--unprotected except for
the flimsy case. The information it contained in micro-micro dot form
could put my world in the palm of the enemy's hand.
The room with the tool kit would be the best place to work, I decided.
I brought the suitcase containing the electronic gear back from the
outer door where I'd left it, opened it and arranged its contents on
the table. According to the Gool these simple components were all I
needed. The trick was in knowing how to put them together.
There was work ahead of me now. There were the coils to wind, the
intricate antenna arrays to lay out; but before I started, I'd take
time to call Kayle--or whoever I could get at the other end of the
hot-line. They'd be a little startled when I turned up at the heart of
the defenses they were trying to shield.