Shandor snubbed out his smoke, his eyes bright. "I've got an idea that
we may be onto something--just something I want to check. But I think if
we work it right, we can lay these boys that fought your father out by
the toes--"
* * * * *
The Library of Congress had been moved when the threat of bombing in
Washington had become acute. Shandor took a cab to the Georgetown
airstrip, checked the fuel in the 'copter. Ten minutes later he started
the motor, and headed upwind into the haze over the hills. In less than
half an hour he settled to the Library landing field in western
Maryland, and strode across to the rear entrance.
The electronic cross-index had been the last improvement in the Library
since the war with China had started in 1958. Shandor found a reading
booth in one of the alcoves on the second floor, and plugged in the
index. The cold, metallic voice of the automatic chirped twice and said,
"Your reference, pleeyuz."
Shandor thought a moment. "Give me your newspaper files on David
Ingersoll, Secretary of State."
"Through which dates, pleeyuz."
"Start with the earliest reference, and carry through to current." The
speaker burped, and he sat back, waiting. A small grate in the panel
before him popped open, and a small spool plopped out onto a spindle.
Another followed, and another. He turned to the reader, and reeled the
first spool into the intake slot. The light snapped on, and he began
reading.
Spools continued to plop down. He read for several hours, taking a dozen
pages of notes. The references commenced in June, 1961, with a small
notice that David Ingersoll, Republican from New Jersey, had been
nominated to run for state senator. Before that date, nothing. Shandor
scowled, searching for some item predating that one. He found nothing.
Scratching his head, he continued reading, outlining chronologically.
Ingersoll's election to state senate, then to United States Senate. His
rise to national prominence as economist for the post-war Administrator
of President Drayton in 1966. His meteoric rise as a peacemaker in a
nation tired from endless dreary years of fighting in China and India.
His tremendous popularity as he tried to stall the re-intensifying
cold-war with Russia. The first Nobel Peace Prize, in 1969, for the
ill-fated Ingersoll Plan for World Sovereignty. Pages and pages and
pages of newsprint. Shandor growled angrily, surveying the pile of notes
with a sinking feeling of incredulity. The articles, the writing, the
tone--it was all too familiar. Carefully he checked the newspaper
sources. Some of the dispatches were Associated Press; many came direct
desk from Public Information Board in New York; two other networks
sponsored some of the wordage. But the tone was all the same.
Finally, disgusted, Tom stuffed the notes into his briefcase, and
flipped down the librarian lever. "Sources, please."
A light blinked, and in a moment a buzzer sounded at his elbow. A female
voice, quite human, spoke as he lifted the receiver. "Can I help you on
sources?"
"Yes. I've been reading the newspaper files on David Ingersoll. I'd like
the by-lines on this copy."