He leaned forward and gave the cabby the landing field address, then sat
back, feeling his pulse pounding through his arms and legs. Nervously he
switched on the radio. The dial fell to some jazz music, which he
tolerated for a moment or two, then flipped to a news broadcast. Not
that news broadcasts really meant much, but he wanted to hear the
Ingersoll story release for the day. He listened impatiently to a
roundup of local news: David Ingersoll stricken with pneumonia, three
Senators protesting the current tax bill--he brought his attention
around sharply at the sound of a familiar name--
"--disappeared from his Chicago home early this morning. Mr. Dartmouth
is president of Dartmouth Bearing Corporation, currently engaged in the
manufacture of munitions for Defense, and producing much of the
machinery being used in the Moon-rocket in Arizona. Police are following
all possible leads, and are confident that there has been no foul play.
"On the international scene, the Kremlin is still blocking--" Shandor
snapped off the radio abruptly, his forehead damp. Dartmouth
disappeared, and with him the files--why? And where to go now to find
them? If the idea that was plaguing him was true, sound, valid--he'd
_have_ to have the files. His whole body was wet with perspiration as he
reached the landing field.
The trip to the Library of Congress seemed endless, yet he knew that the
Library wouldn't be open until 8:00 anyway. Suddenly he felt a wave of
extreme weariness sweep over him--when had he last slept? Bored, he
snapped the telephone switch and rang PIB offices for his mail. To his
surprise, John Hart took the wire, and exploded in his ear, "Where in
hell have you been? I've been trying to get you all night. Listen, Tom,
drop the Ingersoll story cold, and get in here. The faster the better."