* * * * *
Barney Chard, thirty-seven--financier, entrepreneur, occasional
blackmailer, occasional con man, and very competent in all these
activities--stood on a rickety wooden lake dock, squinting against the
late afternoon sun, and waiting for his current business prospect to
give up the pretense of being interested in trying to catch fish.
The prospect, who stood a few yards farther up the dock, rod in one
hand, was named Dr. Oliver B. McAllen. He was a retired physicist,
though less retired than was generally assumed. A dozen years ago he
had rated as one of the country's top men in his line. And, while
dressed like an aging tramp in what he had referred to as fishing
togs, he was at the moment potentially the country's wealthiest
citizen. There was a clandestine invention he'd fathered which he
called the McAllen Tube. The Tube was the reason Barney Chard had come
to see McAllen.
Gently raising and lowering the fishing rod, and blinking out over the
quiet water, Dr. McAllen looked preoccupied with disturbing
speculations not connected with his sport. The man had a secrecy bug.
The invention, Barney thought, had turned out to be bigger than the
inventor. McAllen was afraid of the Tube, and in the forefront of his
reflections must be the inescapable fact that the secret of the
McAllen Tube could no longer be kept without Barney Chard's
co-operation. Barney had evidence of its existence, and didn't really
need the evidence. A few hints dropped here and there would have made
McAllen's twelve years of elaborate precaution quite meaningless.
Ergo, McAllen must be pondering now, how could one persuade Mr. Chard
to remain silent?
But there was a second consideration Barney had planted in the old
scientist's mind. Mr. Chard, that knowledgeable man of the world,
exuded not at all by chance the impression of great quantities of
available cash. His manner, the conservatively tailored business suit,
the priceless chip of a platinum watch ... and McAllen needed cash
badly. He'd been fairly wealthy himself at one time; but since he
had refrained from exploiting the Tube's commercial possibilities, his
continuing work with it was exhausting his capital. At least that
could be assumed to be the reason for McAllen's impoverishment, which
was a matter Barney had established. In months the old man would be
living on beans.
Ergo again, McAllen's thoughts must be running, how might one not
merely coax Mr. Chard into silence, but actually get him to come
through with some much-needed financial support? What inducement,
aside from the Tube, could be offered someone in his position?
Barney grinned inwardly as he snapped the end of his cigarette out on
the amber-tinted water. The mark always sells himself, and McAllen was
well along in the process. Polite silence was all that was necessary
at the moment. He lit a fresh cigarette, feeling a mild curiosity
about the little lake's location. Wisconsin, Minnesota, Michigan
seemed equally probable guesses. What mattered was that half an hour
ago McAllen's Tube had brought them both here in a wink of time from
his home in California.
* * * * *
Dr. McAllen thoughtfully cleared his throat.
"Ever do any fishing, Mr. Chard?" he asked. After getting over his
first shock at Barney's revelations, he'd begun speaking again in the
brisk, abrupt manner Barney remembered from the last times he'd heard
McAllen's voice.
"No," Barney admitted smiling. "Never quite got around to it."
"Always been too busy, eh?"
"With this and that," Barney agreed.
McAllen cleared his throat again. He was a roly-poly little man; over
seventy now but still healthy-looking, with an apple-cheeked,
sunburned face. Over a pair of steel-rimmed glasses his faded blue
eyes peered musingly at Barney. "Around thirty-five, aren't you?"
"Thirty-seven."
"Married?"
"Divorced."
"Any particular hobbies?"