"Your precious father was at the bottom of the whole slimy mess."
"No, no--not dad." She shook her head, her face chalky. "Harry
Dartmouth, maybe, but not dad. Listen a minute. I didn't set you up for
anything. I didn't know what Dartmouth and Mariel were up to. Dad left
instructions for me to contact Harry Dartmouth immediately, in case he
died. He told me that--oh, a year ago. Told me that before I did
anything else, I should contact Dartmouth, and do as he said. So when he
died, I contacted Harry, and kept in contact with him. He told me you
were out to burn my father, to heap garbage on him after he was dead
before the people who loved him, and he said the first thing you would
want would be his personal files. Tom, I didn't know you, then--I knew
Harry, and knew that dad trusted him, for some reason, so I believed
him. But I began to realize that what he said wasn't true. I got the
files, and he said to give them to you, to string you along, and he'd
pick them up from you before you had a chance to do any harm with them.
He said he wouldn't hurt you, but I--I didn't believe him, Tom. I
believed you, that you wanted to give dad a fair shake--"
Shandor was on his feet, his eyes blazing. "So you turned them over to
Dartmouth anyway? And what do you think he's done with them? Can you
tell me that? Where has he gone? Has he burnt them? If not, what's he
going to do with them?"
Her voice was weak, and she looked as if she were about to faint.
"That's what I'm trying to tell you," she said, shakily. "He doesn't
have them. I have them."
Shandor's jaw dropped. "Now, wait a minute," he said softly. "You gave
me the briefcase, Mariel snatched it and nearly killed me--"
"A dummy, Tom. I didn't know who to trust, but I knew I believed you
more than I believed Harry. Things happened so fast, and I was so
confused--" She looked straight at him. "I gave you a dummy, Tom."
His knees walked out from under him, then, and he sank into a chair.
"You've got them here, then," he said weakly.
"Yes. I have them here."
* * * * *
The room was in the back of the house, a small, crowded study, with a
green-shaded desk lamp. Shandor dumped the contents of the briefcase
onto the desk, and settled down, his heart pounding in his throat. He
started at the top of the pile, sifting, ripping out huge sheafs of
papers, receipts, notes, journals, clippings. He hardly noticed when the
girl slipped out of the room, and he was deep in study when she returned
half an hour later with steaming black coffee. With a grunt of thanks he
drank it, never shifting his attention from the scatter of papers,
papers from the personal file of a dead man. And slowly, the picture
unfolded.
An ugly picture. A picture of deceit, a picture full of lies, full of
secret promises, a picture of scheming, of plotting, planning,
influencing, coercing, cheating, propagandizing--all with one
single-minded aim, with a single terrible goal.
Shandor read, numbly, his mind twisting in protest as the picture
unfolded. David Ingersoll's control of Dartmouth Bearing Corporation and
its growing horde of subsidiaries under the figurehead of his protege,
Harry Dartmouth. The huge profits from the Chinese war, the relaxation
of control laws, the millions of war-won dollars ploughed back into
government bonds, in a thousand different names, all controlled by
Dartmouth Bearing Corporation--
And Ingersoll's own work in the diplomatic field--an incredibly
skillful, incredibly evil channeling of power and pressure toward the
inevitable goal, hidden under the cloak of peaceful respectability and
popular support. The careful treaties, quietly disorganizing a dozen
national economics, antagonizing the great nation to the East under the
all too acceptable guise of "peace through strength." Reciprocal trade
agreements bitterly antagonistic to Russian economic development. The
continual bickering, the skillful manipulation hidden under the powerful
propaganda cloak of a hundred publications, all coursing to one
ultimate, terrible goal, all with one purpose, one aim--
War. War with anybody, war in the field and war on the diplomatic front.
Traces even remained of the work done within the enemy nations, bitter
anti-Ingersoll propaganda from within the ranks of Russia herself,
manipulated to strengthen Ingersoll in America, to build him up, to
drive the nations farther apart, while presenting Ingersoll as the
pathetic prince of world peace, fighting desperately to stop the
ponderous wheels of the irresistible juggernaut--
And in America, the constant, unremitting literary and editorial
drumbeating, pressuring greater war preparation, distilling hatreds in a
thousand circles, focussing them into a single channel. Tremendous
propaganda pressure to build armies, to build weapons, to get the
Moon-rocket project underway--
Shandor sat back, eyes drooping, fighting to keep his eyes open. His
mind was numb, his body trembling. A sheaf of papers in a separate
folder caught his eye, production records of the Dartmouth Bearing
Corporation, almost up to the date of Ingersoll's death. Shandor
frowned, a snag in the chain drawing his attention. He peered at the
papers, vaguely puzzled. Invoices from the Chicago plant, materials for
tanks, and guns, and shells. Steel, chemicals. The same for the New
Jersey plant, the same with a dozen subsidiary plants. Shipments of
magnesium and silver wire to the Rocket Project in Arizona, carried
through several subsidiary offices. The construction of a huge
calculator for the Project in Arizona. Motors and materials, all for
Arizona--something caught his mind, brought a frown to his large bland
face, some off-key note in the monstrous symphony of production and
intrigue that threw up a red flag in his mind, screamed for attention--
And then he sipped the fresh coffee at his elbow and sighed, and looked
up at the girl standing there, saw her hand tremble as she steadied
herself against the desk, and sat down beside him. He felt a great
confusion, suddenly, a vast sympathy for this girl, and he wanted to
take her in his arms, hold her close, _protect_ her, somehow. She didn't
know, she _couldn't_ know about this horrible thing. She couldn't have
been a party to it, a part of it. He knew the evidence said yes, she
knows the whole story, she _helped_ them, but he also knew that the
evidence, somehow, was wrong, that somehow, he still didn't have the
whole picture--
She looked at him, her voice trembling. "You're wrong, Tom," she said.
He shook his head, helplessly. "I'm sorry. It's horrible, I know. But
I'm not wrong. This war was planned. We've been puppets on strings, and
one man engineered it, from the very start. Your father."
Her eyes were filled with tears, and she shook her head, running a tired
hand across her forehead. "You didn't know him, Tom. If you did, you'd
know how wrong you are. He was a great man, fine man, but above all he
was a _good_ man. Only a monster could have done what you're thinking.
Dad hated war, he fought it all his life. He couldn't be the monster you
think."
Tom's voice was soft in the darkened room, his eyes catching the
downcast face of the trembling girl, fighting to believe in a phantom,
and his hatred for the power that could trample a faith like that
suddenly swelled up in bitter hopeless rage. "It's here, on paper, it
can't be denied. It's hateful, but it's here, it's what I set out to
learn. It's not a lie this time, Ann, it's the truth, and this time it's
_got to be told_. I've written my last false story. This one is going to
the people the way it is. This one is going to be the truth."
He stopped, staring at her. The puzzling, twisted hole in the puzzle was
suddenly there, staring him in the face, falling down into place in his
mind with blazing clarity. Staring, he dived into the pile of papers
again, searching, frantically searching for the missing piece, something
he had seen, and passed over, the one single piece in the story that
didn't make sense. And he found it, on the lists of materials shipped to
the Nevada plant. Pig Iron. Raw magnesium. Raw copper. Steel, electron
tubes, plastics, from all parts of the country, all being shipped to the
Dartmouth Plant in Nevada--
_Where they made only_ shells--
At first he thought it was only a rumble in his mind, the shocking
realization storming through. Then he saw Ann jump up suddenly,
white-faced and race to the window, and he heard the small scream in her
throat. And then the rumbling grew louder, stronger, and the house
trembled. He heard the whine of jet planes scream over the house as he
joined her at the window, heard the screaming whines mingled with the
rumbling thunder. And far away, on the horizon, the red glare was
glowing, rising, burning up to a roaring conflagration in the black
night sky--
"Washington!" Her voice was small, infinitely frightened.
"Yes. That's Washington."
"Then it really _has_ started." She turned to him with eyes wide with
horror, and snuggled up to his chest like a frightened child. "Oh,
Tom--"
"It's here. What we've been waiting for. What your father started could
never be stopped any other way than this--"
The roar was louder now, rising to a whining scream as another squad of
dark ships roared overhead, moving East and South, jets whistling in the
night. "This is what your father wanted."
She was crying, great sobs shaking her shoulders. "You're wrong, you're
wrong--oh, Tom, you must be wrong--"
His voice was low, almost inaudible in the thundering roar of the
bombardment. "Ann, I've got to go ahead. I've got to go tonight. To
Nevada, to the Dartmouth plant there. I know I'm right, but I have to
go, to check something--to make sure of something." He paused, looking
down at her. "I'll be back, Ann. But I'm afraid of what I'll find out
there. I need you behind me. Especially with what I have to do, I need
you. You've got to decide. Are you for me? Or against me?"
She shook her head sadly, and sank into a chair, gently removing his
hands from her waist. "I loved my father, Tom," she said in a beaten
voice. "I can't help what he's done--I loved him. I--I can't be with
you, Tom."
* * * * *
Far below him he could see the cars jamming the roads leaving
Washington. He could almost hear the noise, the screeching of brakes,
the fistfights, the shouts, the blatting of horns. He moved south over
open country, hoping to avoid the places where the 'copter might be
spotted and stopped for questioning. He knew that Hart would have an
alarm out for him by now, and he didn't dare risk being stopped until he
reached his destination, the place where the last piece to the puzzle
could be found, the answer to the question that was burning through his
mind. Shells were made of steel and chemicals. The tools that made them
were also made of steel. Not manganese. Not copper. Not electron relays,
nor plastic, nor liquid oxygen. Just steel.
The 'copter relayed south and then turned west over Kentucky. Shandor
checked the auxiliary tanks which he had filled at the Library landing
field that morning; then he turned the ship to robot controls and sank
back in the seat to rest. His whole body clamored for sleep, but he knew
he dare not sleep. Any slip, any contact with Army aircraft or Security
patrol could throw everything into the fire-- For hours he sat, gazing
hypnotically at the black expanse of land below, flying high over the
pitch-black countryside. Not a light showed, not a sign of life.
Bored, he flipped the radio button, located a news broadcast. "--the
bombed area did not extend west of the Appalachians. Washington DC was
badly hit, as were New York and Philadelphia, and further raids are
expected to originate from Siberia, coming across the great circle to
the West coast or the Middle west. So far the Enemy appears to have
lived up to its agreement in the Ingersoll pact to outlaw use of atomic
bombs, for no atomic weapons have been used so far, but the damage with
block-busters has been heavy. All citizens are urged to maintain
strictest blackout regulations, and to report as called upon in local
work and civil defense pools as they are set up. The attack began--"
Shandor sighed, checked his instrument readings. Far in the East the
horizon was beginning to lighten, a healthy, white-grey light. His
calculations placed him over Eastern Nebraska, and a few moments later
he nosed down cautiously and verified his location. Lincoln Airbase was
in a flurry of activity; the field was alive with men, like little black
ants, preparing the reserve fighters and pursuits for use in a fever of
urgent speed. Suddenly the 'copter radio bleeped, and Tom threw the
switch. "Over."
An angry voice snarled, "You up there, whoever you are, where'd you
leave your brains? No civilian craft are allowed in the air, and that's
orders straight from Washington. Don't you know there's a war on? Now
get down here, before you're shot down--"
Shandor thought quickly. "This is a Federal Security ship," he snapped.
"I'm just on a reconnaissance--"