"_Get in here!_" roared Hart. "From now on you've _really_ got a job.
The Berlin Conference blew up tonight, Tom--high as a kite. _We're at
war with Russia--_"
Carefully, Shandor plopped the receiver down on its hook, his hands like
ice. Just one item first, he thought, just one thing I've got to know.
_Then_ back to PIB, maybe.
He found a booth in the Library, and began hunting, time pressing him
into frantic speed. The idea was incredible, but it _had_ to be true.
He searched the micro-film files for three hours before he found it, in
a "Who's Who" dating back to 1958, three years before the war with
China. A simple, innocuous listing, which froze him to his seat. He read
it, unbelievingly, yet knowing that it was the only possible link.
Finally he read it again.
David P. Ingersoll. Born 1922, married 1947. Educated at Rutgers
University and MIT. Worked as administrator for International Harvester
until 1955. Taught Harvard University from 1955 to 1957.
David P. Ingersoll, becoming, in 1958, the executive president of
Dartmouth Bearing Corporation....
* * * * *
He found a small, wooded glade not far from the Library, and set the
'copter down skillfully, his mind numbed, fighting to see through the
haze to the core of incredible truth he had uncovered. The great, jagged
piece, so long missing, was suddenly plopped right down into the middle
of the puzzle, and now it didn't fit. There were still holes, holes that
obscured the picture and twisted it into a nightmarish impossibility. He
snapped the telephone switch, tried three numbers without any success,
and finally reached the fourth. He heard Dr. Prex's sharp voice on the
wire.
"Anything happen since I left, Prex?"
"Nothing remarkable." The doctor's voice sounded tired. "Somebody tried
to call Mariel on the visiphone about an hour after you had gone, and
then signed off in a hurry when he saw somebody else around. Don't know
who it was, but he sounded mighty agitated." The doctor's voice paused.
"Anything new, Tom?"
"Plenty," growled Shandor bitterly. "But you'll have to read it in the
newspapers." He flipped off the connection before Prex could reply.
Then Shandor sank back and slept, the sleep of total exhaustion, hoping
that a rest would make the shimmering, indefinite picture hold still
long enough for him to study it. And as he drifted into troubled sleep a
greater and more pressing question wormed upward into his mind.
He woke with a jolt, just as the sun was going down, and he knew then
with perfect clarity what he had to do. He checked quickly to see that
he had been undisturbed, and then manipulated the controls of the
'copter. Easing the ship into the sky toward Washington, he searched out
a news report on the radio, listened with a dull feeling in the pit of
his stomach as the story came through about the breakdown of the Berlin
Conference, the declaration of war, the President's meeting with
Congress that morning, his formal request for full wartime power, the
granting of permission by a wide-eyed, frightened legislature. Shandor
settled back, staring dully at the ground moving below him, the whisps
of evening haze rising over the darkening land. There was only one thing
to do. He had to have Ingersoll's files. He knew only one way to get
them.
Half an hour later he was settling the ship down, under cover of
darkness, on the vast grounds behind the Ingersoll estate, cutting the
motors to effect a quiet landing. Tramping down the ravine toward the
huge house, he saw it was dark; down by the gate he could see the
Security Guard, standing in a haze of blue cigarette smoke under the
dim-out lights. Cautiously he slipped across the back terrace, crossing
behind the house, and jangled a bell on a side porch.
Ann Ingersoll opened the door, and gasped as Shandor forced his way in.
"Keep quiet," he hissed, slipping the door shut behind him. Then he
sighed, and walked through the entrance into the large front room.
"Tom! Oh, Tom, I was afraid-- Oh, _Tom_!" Suddenly she was in his arms
sobbing, pressing her face against his shirt front. "Oh, I'm so glad to
see you, Tom--"
He disengaged her, turning from her and walking across the room. "Let's
turn it off, Ann," he said disgustedly. "It's not very impressive."
"Tom--I--I _wanted_ to tell you. I just didn't know what to do. I didn't
believe them when they said you wouldn't be harmed, I was afraid. Oh,
Tom, I wanted to tell you, believe me--"
"You didn't tell me," he snapped. "They were nervous, they slipped up.
That's the only reason I'm alive. They planned to kill me."
She stared at him tearfully, shaking her head from side to side,
searching for words. "I--I didn't want that--"
He whirled, his eyes blazing. "You silly fool, what do you think you're
doing when you play games with a mob like this? Do you think they're
going to play fair? You're no clod, you know better than that--" He
leaned over her, trembling with anger. "You set me up for a sucker, but
the plan fell through. And now I'm running around loose, and if you
thought I was dangerous before, you haven't seen anything like how
dangerous I am now. You're going to tell me some things, now, and you're
going to tell them straight. You're going to tell me where Harry
Dartmouth went with those files, where they are right now. Understand
that? _I want those files._ Because when I have them I'm going to do
exactly what I started out to do. I'm going to write a story, the whole
rotten story about your precious father and his two-faced life. I'm
going to write about Dartmouth Bearing Corporation and all its flunky
outfits, and tell what they've done to this country and the people of
this country." He paused, breathing heavily, and sank down on a chair,
staring at her. "I've learned things in the past twenty-four hours I
never dreamed could be true. I should be able to believe anything, I
suppose, but these things knocked my stilts out from under me. This
country has been had--right straight down the line, for a dozen years.
We've been sold down the river like a pack of slaves, and now we're
going to get a look at the cold ugly truth, for once."