Jacques and Harpo were waiting for him at the head of the escalator. He
nodded and followed them down the corridor to the small jitney car that
was waiting.
"All set?"
"All set. The guards are all busy up in N unit putting out a fire. They
won't be down to bother us for a couple of hours." The Nasty Frenchman
scowled disdainfully. "But you'll have to hurry. When they come back,
we'll have a time stalling them again."
Jeff nodded. "That should be enough. Then maybe we'll have other things
to occupy the guards tonight."
The jitney started with a lurch and a squawk. Harpo handled the
controls, running the little car swiftly down the corridor. It swung
suddenly into a pitch-black tunnel, took an abrupt dip and began to
spiral downward at a wild rate. Jeff grabbed the hand rail and gasped.
"It's a long way down," Harpo chuckled, sitting back in the darkness.
"The Archives hold the permanent records of the entire Hoffman Center
since it was first opened. That's why it's a vault, so that bombing
won't destroy it. It's one of the most valuable tombs in history."
The jitney shot out into a lighted corridor. Jeff swallowed and felt
his ears pop. The little car whizzed through a maze of tunnels and
corridors. Finally it settled down to the floor before the heavy steel
doors at the end of a large corridor.
Without a word, Harpo moved down to the end of the corridor, and drew
the jitney car with him. He opened the motor hood, started pawing
around busily inside.
The Nasty Frenchman chuckled. "If anyone wanders by, that jitney alarm
siren goes off, and Harpo's just a poor technician trying to make it
stop." The little man walked quickly to the steel doors. "It's not the
first time I've had to work on these," he said slyly. "We wanted in
here a few months ago, when they were trying to pull a shakedown deal
on some of us. I worked out the combination pattern then; it took me
three days. They change the combination periodically, of course, but
the pattern is built into the lock."
He opened a small leather case and placed an instrument up against
the lock. A long, thin wire was poised and ready in his other hand.
Jeff heard several muffled clicks; then Jacques inserted the wire
sharply into something. An alarm bell above the door gave one dull,
half-hearted clunk and relapsed into silence, as though changing its
mind at the last moment. A moment later the little Frenchman looked up
and winked, and the steel vault door rolled slowly back.
The place smelled damp and empty. Three walls and half of the fourth
were occupied with electronic file controls. The bulk of the room was
taken up with tables, microviewers, readers, recorders, and other
study-apparatus. There was nothing small in the room; the whole place
breathed of bigness, of complexity, of many years of work and wisdom,
of many lives and many, many deaths. It was a record-room that many
lives had built.
Jeff moved in toward the control panel. He located the master coder
and sat down in a chair before it, his eyes running over it carefully,
sizing up the mammoth filing machine. And then, quite suddenly, he felt
terribly afraid. A knot grew in his stomach and a cold sweat broke out
on his forehead. A face was again looming up sharply in his mind. It
was the huge, ghoulish face that had come to him again and again in his
dreams; the face full of hatred and viciousness--pale and inhuman.
It was the face of a heartless, pointless, bloody assassin. But was
that all? Or was there more to that face, more to that dream than Jeff
had ever suspected? Something deep in his mind stirred, sending a chill
down his spine. His hand trembled as he ran a hand over the control
panel. A ghost was there at his elbow, a ghost that had followed him on
this nebulous trail of bitterness and hatred for so long--a trail which
would end in this very room.
He shook his head angrily. There was no time for panic, no time for
ruminating. He picked the panel-code combination for the Mercy Men and
the research unit. Then he computed the coding for Conroe's name. With
trembling fingers, he typed out the coding, punched the tracer button
and sat back, his heart thumping wildly. He watched the receiver slot
for the telltale file cards and folio.
The file squeaked and chattered and whirred and moaned, and finally the
pale instruction panel lighted up: No Information.
Jeff blinked, a chill running up his back. These files were the
final appeal; the information had to be here. Quickly, he computed a
description coding, fed it in and waited again in mounting tension.
Still no information. He picked the code card from his pocket, the card
from the Mercy Men's file up above, the card with the Hoffman Center's
own picture of Conroe on it. He fed it into the photoelectric tracer,
marked in the necessary coding for an unlimited file search: "Any
person resembling this description in any way: any information on--"
Again he sat back, breathing heavily.
The whirring went on and on. Then, inexorably, the little panel
flickered and spelled out a single word:
"Unknown."
Jeff choked. He stared at the panel, his whole body shaking, and went
through the coding again, step by step, searching for an error, finding
none. It was impossible, it couldn't be so--and yet, the files were
empty of information. As though there had never been a Paul Conroe.
There was not even a reference card to the card in the Mercy Men's
files.
He stared at the panel, his mind rebelling in protest. Nothing,
not even a trace in the one place where there had to be complete
information. He had come to a dead end--the last dead end there could
be in the Hoffman Center.
The Nasty Frenchman lit a cigarette and watched Jeff from bright eyes.
"No luck?"
"No luck," said Jeff, brokenly. "We're beaten. That's all."
"But there must be--"
"Well, there's not!" Jeff slammed his fist down on the table with a
crash, his eyes blazing. "There's not a trace, not a whisper of the man
in here. There has to be--and there's not. It's the same as every other
time: a blank wall. Blank wall after blank wall. I'm getting tired
of them, so miserably tired of running into blind alley after blind
alley." He stood up, his shoulders sagging. "I'm too tired of it to
keep it up. There's no point to gambling any longer. I'm getting out of
here while I've got a whole skin."
"Maybe you've got more time than you think." The Nasty Frenchman eyed
him in alarm. "This is no time to run out. It may be weeks before
you're assigned."
Jeff stared at him. "Well, I know one way to find out." He walked over
to the control panel, stabbed an angry finger at the master coder,
picked out the coding for "J. Meyer." "They'll have me here too," he
snapped. "The whole works about me: what the testing said, what they're
going to do to me. That's one way to find out." Quickly, he typed out
the coding, punched the tracer button....
The machinery whirred again, briefly. Then there was a click in the
receiver slot and another and another. Jeff blinked at it as the
microfilm rolls continued to fall down. Then he reached out to the
single white card which fell on top of the rolls. His fingers were damp
as he took the card. His own death warrant, perhaps? He glanced at the
card and froze. His head began pounding as if it would burst.
"J. Meyer" he had punched in, and that was what the card said--_but not
Jeffrey Meyer_. The card held a photo of a middle-aged, gray-haired
man, and the typewritten name at the top said: JACOB MEYER.
_And the picture was a photograph of his father's face._
* * * * *
It was impossible, incredible, but he stared at the card in his hand.
It did not disappear; it stayed there. It still said: "Jacob Meyer";
it still showed the beloved features of his father, staring up at him
blankly from the card. _His father!_
His heart pounded as he stared at the brief typewritten notation below
the picture: "Born 11 August, 2050, Des Moines, Iowa; married 3 Dec.
2077, wife died childbirth 27 November 2078; one son Jeffrey born 27
November 2078." Then below were a series of dates: date of bachelor's
degree, date of Master's and Doctorate; Associate Professor of
Statistics at Rutgers University, 2079-2084; joined Government Bureau
of Statistics in 2085. Finally, at the bottom of the card were a long
series of reference numbers to microfilm files.
Jeff sank down in the chair, his mind spinning helplessly. He turned
dazed eyes to the Nasty Frenchman. "You might as well go," he said.
"I've got to do some reading."
Feverishly, he scooped up the microfilm rolls, carried them to the
nearest reader, twisted the spool into the machine and bent his eyes to
the viewing slot, his heart pounding in his throat....
The first roll was a long, detailed series of abstracts of statistical
papers, all written by Jacob A. Meyer, Ph.D., all covered with marginal
notes in a scrawling, spidery hand and initialed "R.D.S." The papers
covered a multitude of studies; some dealt with the very techniques of
statistical analyses themselves, others were concerned with specific
studies that had been done.
The papers were written in scholarly manner, perfectly well documented,
but the marginal notes found fault continually, both with the samplings
noted and the conclusions drawn. Jeff read through some of the papers
and he scowled. They dated over a period of the four years when his
father had been teaching statistics. There were several dozen papers,
all with marginal notes, none of which made much sense to Jeff. With a
sigh, he pulled out the roll, fed in another.
This one seemed a little more rewarding. It was a letter, signed by
Roger D. Schiml, M.D., dated almost twenty years before, addressed to
the Government Bureau of Statistics. Jeff's eyes skimmed the letter
briefly, catching words here, phrases there:
... as director of research at the Hoffman Center, considered it my
duty to bring this unbelievable condition to the attention of higher
authorities.... Naturally, a statistical analysis must be made of
the matter before it can be concluded that there has been a marked
increase in mental illness of any kind in the general populace ...
have followed Dr. Meyer's analyses in the past with much interest,
and would be pleased if he could come to the Hoffman Center within
the next month to commence such a study....
There was nothing tangible, nothing that made sense. Jeff shuffled
through the rolls, popped another into place in the reader. This time
he read much more closely a letter from an unknown person to Dr.
Schiml. It was dated almost a year later than the former letter. This
note referred in several places to the "Almost unbelievable results of
the statistical study done several months ago." It also referred to the
investigation just concluded of possible disturbing elements in the
analysis. The final paragraph Jeff read through three times, his eyes
nearly popping.
There was no doubt that the data was sound, and properly collected;
naturally, the results of the analysis followed mathematically from
the data. It seemed, therefore, that we were dealing with a disturbing
factor heretofore quite unsuspected. Our investigation leads us to
the inavoidable, though hardly credible, conclusion that Dr. Jacob
A. Meyer _was himself_ the sole disturbing factor in the analysis.
No other possibility fits the facts of the picture. We recommend
therefore that an intensive study of Dr. Meyer's previous work be
undertaken, with a view to answering the obvious questions aroused by
such a report. We also recommend that this be undertaken without
delay.
At the top of the letter, in red letters, was the government's careful
restriction: TOP SECRET.
Another roll went into the reader. This held the letter-head of a New
York psychiatrist. Jeff's eyes caught the name and he read eagerly:
Dear Dr. Schiml:
We have studied the microfilm records you posted to us with extreme
care, and undertaken the study of Jacob Meyer, as instructed. Although
it is impossible to make a positive diagnosis without interviewing
and examining the patient in person, we are inclined to support your
views as stated in your letter. As to the possibility of other more
remarkable phenomena occurring, we are not prepared to comment. But
we must point out that this man almost certainly undergoes a regular
manic-depressive cycle, may be dangerously depressed, even suicidal,
in a depressive low, and may endanger himself and others in a manic
period of elation. Such a person is extremely dangerous and should not
be allowed freedom to go as he chooses.
Jeff looked up, tears streaming from his eyes. His whole body was
wet with perspiration. He could hardly keep his balance as he stood
up. What lies! The idea that his father could have been insane, that
he could have falsified any sort of statistical report that he had
done--it was impossible, a pack of incredible lies. But they were
here, on the files of the greatest medical center on the face of the
earth--lies about his father, lies that Jeff couldn't even attack
because he could not understand them.
The door swung open sharply, and the Nasty Frenchman stuck his head in,
panting. "Better get going," he snarled. "There are guards coming." His
head disappeared abruptly, and Jeff heard Harpo's voice bellow at him:
"Come on, we've got to run!"
Jeff's legs would hardly move. He felt numb as though a thousand nerve
centers had been suddenly struck all at once. He fumbled, pouring the
microfilm rolls into his pockets, his mind whirling. There was no sense
to it: no understanding, no explanation. Somehow, he knew, there was a
tie-in between these records of his father, taken so long ago, and the
absence of any information on Paul Conroe in the files. But he couldn't
find the link.
He ran out into the hall, leaped into the jitney car. He hung on for
dear life as it sped up through the tunnel, into the blackness of the
spiral once again. Suddenly, in his ears, another sound exploded, the
loud, insistent clang of an alarm bell.
Harpo looked at the Nasty Frenchman and then at Jeff. "Oh, oh," he said
softly. "They're onto something; that's a general muster. We'd better
get back to quarters--and fast!"
He shoved the controls ahead a bit further, and Jeff felt the car leap
ahead. Finally it settled down in the quarters corridor. They leaped
out, Harpo set the dials for the car to return, and the three men ran
for their quarters, the bell still clanging in their ears.
In Jeff's mind thoughts were tumbling as he ran--hopeless thoughts,
uneasy thoughts. As he had ridden up, little chinks had fallen into
place in his mind. Little spaces that he had never understood suddenly
began to make sense, adding up to questions, big questions. It was too
pat, too easy that Conroe should come in here and vanish as if he had
never been alive. Things didn't happen that way, not even for Conroe.
Other things came into focus, slowly, flickering briefly through his
mind--things that had happened years before, things that seemed,
suddenly, to mean something. Then, just as they came into focus, they
flickered back out of reach again. They were incidents like the night
in the gambling room; like the night in the nightclub with the dancer
swaying before him; like the sudden, shocking jolt that had awakened
him from the depths of hypnosis and driven him face-first into a stone
wall; things like the curious viciousness of his hatred for Paul
Conroe--a hate that had carried him to the ends of the earth. But now
that hate lay stalemated, and new and more frightening information
threatened to descend on him.
What did it mean?
Jeff felt the uneasiness crystallize into real fear. He broke into a
run down the corridor toward his room. Fear pounded through his mind,
suddenly, unreasonably. He tore open the door, fell inside, closed it
tight behind him before snapping on the lights.
The room was empty. The coffee pot still stood on the little table. It
was still hot, still steaming. Blackie was gone and a cigarette still
burned on the edge of the tray.
_He had to get out!_ He knew it then, knew that was at the bottom of
the unreasonable fear. The bell was still clanging in the hallway,
loudly piercing the still air of the room. He had to flee while he
could. Instinctively now he knew that he'd never find Paul Conroe in
the Center, never in a thousand years of searching. The fear grew
stronger, a little voice screaming in his ear, "_Don't wait. Run, run
now, or it's too late._"
He tore open his foot locker, stared at the empty hooks. The locker was
cleaned out, empty of every stitch of clothing. His bag was gone, his
shoes, his coat.
_It's too late. Don't wait._
His pulse pounded in his temples and a sweat broke out on his forehead.
The escalator! If he could get to it, then make the turn into the next
corridor, and get a jitney car.... It was the only way to get out and
he had no choice. Panting, he broke out into the hall once again, ran
pell-mell down the corridor toward the escalator. Then, when he was
almost there, a wire cage slammed down across the corridor and blocked
his path completely.
Jeff stopped short, his shoes scraping against the concrete floor. His
heart pounded a deafening tattoo in his ears as he stared at the wire
grill. Then he whirled and ran back down the corridor as fast as his
legs would move. If he could get back to the offices, back to the main
corridor before they stopped him, he could get a car there. Far ahead
he saw the bright light of the main corridor. His breath came in a
hoarse whine as he tried to run faster. And then, ten yards ahead, he
saw another grill clank down, cutting him off, falling directly in his
path.
He cried out, a helpless, desperate cry. He was trapped, caught in
the one length of corridor. His mind spun dizzily to Blackie. She
had been gone. Where to? Where had everybody gone? He started back,
frantically jerking open doors on either side of the corridor, staring
into room after room, his breath catching in his throat as he ran. All
the rooms were empty. Jeff felt his mind spinning. He felt a curious
inevitability, a fantastic pattern falling into shape as he stared
into the empty rooms. Finally he reached his own again. Wide-eyed and
panting, he threw the door open, strode in and threw himself down in
the chair and waited.
He did not wait long. For a few moments there was no sound. Then he
heard the sounds of feet coming down the corridor. He tightened his
grip on the chair arm. He wasn't thinking any longer. Cold beads of
sweat stood out on his forehead as he waited, hearing the steps draw
nearer. For the first time that he could remember, sheer terror crept
through his mind, paralyzing him. He knew he had waited too long. His
chance to jump the road was gone; there was no longer any escape.
Then the door was filled by some figures. One of them was the tall,
white figure of Dr. Schiml. He walked into the room and smiled like the
cat that ate the canary. Sinking down on the bed with a sigh, he was
still smiling at Jeff. The girl followed him into the room. Her eyes
were downcast. She tossed a little pair of ivory dice into the air and
caught them as they fell.
The doctor smiled, and drew a crisp white paper from his pocket,
began unfolding it slowly. "A matter of business," he said, almost
apologetically. "It's time we got down to business, I think."