He could figure that out later. And clean things up later. Right now,
no time--first things first.
First thing was Lee. _Quick!_ before he was too late. _Too late
already, anyhow: too late for Doug, for ever, too late._
Too late for lots of things, too late for Johnny? Maybe, but if not too
late for Lee, then maybe...?
He remembered some more. He couldn’t go.
_Couldn’t_ go.
_Couldn’t?_
He took the word out, out of his aching head, and looked at it. Studied
it, turned it over, tried to turn it inside out, but there it was, all
the time, like a neon light:
c-o-u-l-d-n-apostrophe-t
Couldn’t.
He shook his head tiredly, but the letters danced behind his eyelids
even when he closed his eyes. He was very very tired. He took off his
jacket and went into the bedroom and took off his trousers and lay down.
When he awoke again, it was dusk. He knew exactly what he had to do. He
was cold sober, not hung over, fiercely hungry too. But he was afraid
it might already be too late to get things done today.
Which day? Friday? Saturday? _Sunday?_ Eating could wait.
He went to the phone, and flicked the switch, the operator thought
he was kidding, but she finally told him: Saturday. And almost eight
o’clock.
He went to the kitchen and made himself a sandwich with two thick slabs
of rye bread and a stack of old dried-looking boiled ham slices from
the refrigerator. He was too hungry to care if it was dry or tasteless.
He took one large bite, wrapped the rest in a napkin, and shoved it in
his jacket pocket. He started out, then remembered seeing a quart of
milk when he got the ham. He went back, and drank all but an inch or so
of the milk, right from the wax container. _Then_ he went out, a little
worried, wondering if he’d done something to the heli too, that he
didn’t recall.
The funny thing was, he was so set on getting to someone from the
Committee, to tell them he’d take the subpoena now, that when the
little man in the brown suit stepped out from behind the hangar, and
served it on him he didn’t even think to be surprised. The only thing
that startled him was the big bass voice asking his name; it came from
such a _medium_ guy.
Afterwards, a hundred feet up and building speed, he was astonished at
the man still being there. He shook his head and grinned. “Guts!” he
said out loud to nobody, admiringly.
Later yet, over Philadelphia, he had to decide which way to go, and
realized he didn’t know where they were firing from this trip. It
occurred to him, hovering there, that he was not quite as clear-headed
as he felt he was. The sandwich was still in his pocket, for instance,
and he didn’t know where to go. Also, belatedly, he wondered if he’d
have any trouble with _this_ bunch about going up.
He kept on south. It would be either Andes or St. Thom, that much
he was sure of. Just beyond Wilmington he saw a field with service
stations and no traffic to speak of. He dropped, left the machine for
servicing whatever slipshod way the station did it, and went inside to
the phones.
_Senor_ McLafferty was not at home. He was in Mexcity, at a verrree
imporrrtant conferrrence.
“Can you tell me where to reach him?” Johnny asked urgently.
She was most sorrreee, but the number was one she was not allowed to
give.
“Can _you_ reach him?” There was no time for arguing.
Reluctantly: Yes, she could.
“All right, now listen. Call him _right away_. I’m at a pay phone, and
I haven’t got much time, and believe me, he wants to hear from me.
My name is John Wendt, you understand? The number here is Wilmington
Five-seven nine oh-eight jay six. Please ask him to call me _as quickly
as possible_. You got the name, now, John--”
“Yes, _Senor_. I _know_ the name.” He relaxed. He could see the
difference. She did know the name, and she would call McLafferty. He
flicked off, bought a soda, and sat down in the old metal chair out
front to wait for the call back.
It was midnight here. Ten, Central time. The rocket would blast at
eight ack emma Central, _latest_--seven, more likely--from wherever
they were shooting from. If the idiot congressman called back but
_fast_, and if it was St. Thom, he could make it. Andes was probably
impossible even now.
_Dollars Dome--Sunday, October 16, 4:35_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
Thad Bourgnese pursed his lips in a silent whistle, and passed the news
wire across the desk to Kutler. “Here we go again,” he said.
Phil glanced down the sheet rapidly. “Could be,” he said. “But I
wouldn’t put any money on _where_ we go. Or he goes. Or--”
“She goes? Obviously, friend: whither he goes. I mean, you’re the
doctor; you’ve noticed, I’m sure?”
“Only thing I’m not sure of,” Phil laughed, “is what you mean. Was it
the belly or the heart I was supposed to diagnose? On second thought,
that’s not the only thing I’m not sure of. It’s practically lost in the
multitude.”
“All right. Here’s another one for you. How in the name of all that’s
holy did he get on that ship? Last time I heard Chris on the subject,
J. Wendt wasn’t going to hit Moondirt again till death did them.”
“One of the many uncertainties I mentioned,” Phil said noncommitally.
“You never know. A lot can happen in a week Earthside. Or maybe Chris
was willing to take the risk if he was on the same trip....”
“The _trip_ wasn’t the problem. They could keep him under, like last
time. I dunno--the old man’s gettin’ soft, maybe--” He broke off.
“Hi, gorgeous,” he said, as Lisa pushed the door open. “What brings you
back from the Great Unknown so early and all of a glow?”
She gave him a smile-in-passing, but her question was for Phil. “Is he
coming _with Chris_?”
“Dunno, honey. They’re both coming. Hard to say whose idea it was or
who’s talking to whom.” Thad was right about that _all-of-a-glow_ bit.
_Pregnant women get that way_, he told himself, and now with Johnny
coming....
“Hold on, beautiful. Didn’t anybody ever tell you it’s bad manners to
listen through keyholes? If we had a keyhole, I mean.”
“But I _wasn’t_--”
“They’re still running radiowire service, chum,” Phil stepped in. “Or
were, last I heard.” Odd, now it came time to accept the idea, admit
it, quit nibbling around the edges, how easy it was. Damn sight easier
than querying and wondering about things that just didn’t _fit_, any
other way. “Glad you stopped by, kid,” he said to Lee. “We’ve got to
get moving with the new program. Never catch you any more when you’re
not working or sleeping or out visiting your buggy buddies.”
“All right. But did you get the news report yet?” He nodded. “May I--?”
He passed it over.
She looked it through quickly and handed it back.
“Nothing you didn’t already know, hey?” Phil stood up, trying to look
brisk and efficient. “The more I think of it, the more I think we
better get that new program set up _now_. I have a feeling,” he said in
Thad’s direction, “I may be losing my chief assistant headshrinker a
little sooner than I expected.”
He hustled Lee out of the room ahead of him, and set a fast pace for
his office. He needed a little time to think, before he verbalized into
his conscious intellectual Gestalt the reality that so far existed for
him only in awareness.
And before the verbalizing, he had to determine--if he could--how much
_she_ knew.
He closed his office door, and switched on the Busy-light. No approach
like the obvious, he decided.
“Lee, how _did_ you know about Johnny?” he asked as soon as she was
settled in a chair.
“How--? Oh. I thought you really thought I got a wire.” She looked at
him almost warily. “I told you before, Phil, I _knew_ he’d come. When
it was time.”
“Just feminine intuition?”
He had intended the remark to be neutral and light. It came out harshly
sardonic.
Lisa sat forward, startled. “What do--” she started. She searched
Phil’s face for--what? He didn’t know. Then she withdrew: her eyes
turned inward; she sat back, not relaxed as before, but erect,
spring-coiled for some as-yet-undetermined action.
“No,” she said finally. “Not feminine intuition, Phil. How about just
_intuition_? The kind anyone can have?”
_Damn you!_ the outraged seeker within shrieked. _Bitch!_
She _knew_, and wouldn’t tell.
_But does she know she knows?_ The doctor was back. “All right, I’ll
buy that,” he said. “For now, anyhow.” He stood up and went to the
window. Looking out, because he couldn’t hurt her and see her hurt, he
said, “Let me ask you another one.”
“Yes?” She was all self-possessed again. That tender-amusement bit.
_Okay, kid, brace yourself; you’ll need it!_
“What makes you think Doug Laughlin was so much like me?” And he held
his breath. If he was wrong--or if she lied--he would never know which
it had been. The words flew from him, even as he tried to call them
back: once spoken, they wiped out all slower safer ways to know for
_sure_.
“Well, darling, there are so _many_--_Did_ I tell you that? I didn’t
mean to. It was such a wild thought--Come to think of it, maybe it _is_
‘feminine’ intuition, Phil. Maybe something to do with being pregnant,
or--something like that? Because I sure do a lot of it these days. I
never used to. Not as _much_, anyhow.... Maybe I’m just more relaxed,
so that I _know_ when I think something, or when I just--_feel_ it. I
mean, feel it’s _true_, so if I wasn’t watching, or rather, if I were
less _aware_ of what goes on inside me, I might think I was thinking,
or think I had _heard_ it or read it somewhere or actually _seen_ it.
You know.”
“I know,” he said. “I know very well. Because _I_ thought I _heard_ you
say that about Doug. And now you think you did. But you didn’t.”
“I didn’t?” It was honest bewilderment.... He was _almost_ sure it was.
“No, damn it, you _didn’t_! I _know_ you didn’t--because it just
happened, by pure stupid dumb good luck, that the recorder was on for
the whole conversation.
“_Which_ conversation?”
“The one that left me wondering why you should think that. I got out
the files on Doug, and decided you were pretty right. Then I remembered
something I’d thought about down in New York, and I wanted to make a
note of it while I remembered--an insight I thought I maybe had into
Doug’s walkout. Seemed more likely to be valid, after I checked some of
his reactions against my own. So I went to turn the tape on, and found
out it _was_ on, and just for kicks, played back everything we’d said,
meaning to wipe it off afterwards, and--you’d never said a word about
Doug and me. _Not one damn word!_”
He had turned as he spoke, flinging the words at her in passion. Now he
turned from her white face and looked out again.
“Phil--”
“Yes?”
He heard the faint female-rustling sound of her moving, but wouldn’t
look around. She came up beside him. She too looked out, standing at
his side.
“You know,” she said slowly, “It _could_ be that I’d mentioned it some
_other_ time? And you remembered it just then for some reason, and
_thought_ that’s when you heard it?”
He nodded. “Could be. When did you first think of it?”
Slowly: “I’m--not--sure.”
“But you think it was that day? Don’t you?”
“Not in your office. The first time I thought of it, it was
out--_there_.” With a tilt of her head she pointed to the Shack.
“You were out there just _now_, weren’t you?”
No answer.
“When you knew about Johnny?”
Nothing.
He wanted to grab her shoulders and shake her and _make_ her face the
truth. He walked carefully away from her and sat down at his desk.
“I want to tell you about something, Lee. You may have come across some
accounts of this kind of thing yourself. It’s not too unusual. And
you’ve done some reading in this type of thing--”
“Never mind, Phil.” She came back from the window and sat facing him
again. “I know where you’re going. Clairvoyant and--_telepathic_
phenomena under hypnotism. Right?”
He nodded.
“You know any clear-cut case?”
He nodded again. “A couple. Clairvoyance. Not the other.” He picked up
a pencil, studied it curiously. Just a pencil. He put it down. “Let me
add this, Lee: every case I ever heard of that seemed reliably reported
and scientifically set up involved a performance _under hypnotic
command_. That is, with the help of suggestion. There are at least two
or three that seem clear of any suspicion of suggestion as to _what_ to
see. _Completely_ clear, I mean. But the subjects _were told to do it_.”
_Relay Station--Sunday, October 16, 5_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
Once upon a time, the great harbors of Earth used rocket beacons to
signal to ships entering and leaving port: ships that rounded the
globe, sometimes, under no other power than that of wind and water
waves. At the ports of Space, rocket fire moves the ships in and out;
waves of sound carried silently on waves of electrons convey the
signals now. Otherwise, harbors have always been much alike. Even four
hundred miles above ground, men sweat in their pressure suits; swear at
the intractable bulk of large masses (with or without “weight”); mill
in apparent confusion, behind which incredible achievements of order
and planned distribution move endlessly; roughhouse and rag and joke
with the blood-and-gut humor (and good humor) of haulers and movers and
handlers and drovers and drivers and sailors and truckers and spacers
and all men who gain their daily bread conquering space-mass-time with
their hands and backs.
Relay Station is many things. Most ports are. It’s Earth’s eye on the
sky and it’s the reflex nerve center of radio communication around the
Earth. It is also a tunnelled labyrinth of intrigue and espionage.
But first and foremost, it is Man’s greatest port to date. Every ship
of all nations that lifts off of Earth stops here for inspection and
servicing and then for safe-passage through the vicious rays of the
Vanallens, infinitely multitudinous scyllas and charybdises of the
Space odyssey.
From Relay, the Belt Balloons, air filled and skin-charged, each with
its central pit of a single shuttle ship, are flung up through the twin
belts of darting electrons, to meet the great wheel of the _Messenger_
in orbit at its 12,000-mile perihelion.
All passengers on U.S.A.A. ships have the option of sleeping through
the two first legs of the trip, till the shuttle is safely inside
the _Messenger_; but the more knowing ones come out of sedation at
Relay, in hopes of traveling close enough to other Balloons to see for
themselves the coruscating display of blue fire, as the wild electrons
of the Belts are dashed off the charged thin skins of the bulleting
spheres.
John Wendt had never seen the Belt Balloons. When he lived and trained
on the Moon, and took rare leaves on Earth, the _Messenger_, with its
ion drive and thermal exchange power plant, was still a drawing-board
dream. The thrice he had traveled by shuttle, via Balloon and the
_Messenger_, he had made the whole voyage under sedation.
His choice of minimum sleep this time out was not motivated by a desire
to see the Balloons. He had avoided exposure to Space talk, Space news,
Space views, so thoroughly in his twenty months on Earth that he did
not even _know_ there was anything worth seeing.
He simply meant to let Pete Christensen, and anybody else who noticed,
know that he _could_ make the trip. _Wide awake._
He was a little sorry when he learned that Chris was on the first
shuttle, the one that left ten minutes before Mac got him to the St.
Thom Port and through the snarl of red tape that wound him up on
Shuttle Two. But he assumed there would be communication between the
two boats, once on board the _Messenger_. Certainly, the Dome Director
would be free to go between shuttles, and certainly, he would be
apprised of the change in the passenger list at the first opportunity.
Johnny looked forward to seeing Chris when the time came. The shoe had
changed feet, and it fit one hell of a sight better.
He never did get to see Shuttle One crackling spectacularly through the
outer edge of the Big Belt, as Two’s balloon entered Little Belt; he
was much too sophisticated a Space traveler to crowd to the viewports
when the others did.
_Dollars Dome--Monday, October 17, 2_ P.M. (_C.S.T._)
“That ought to fix you up now, Miss Trovi.” He fastened the buckle that
held the miniature set strapped to her suit, and said, “Now if you want
to just show me how you’d work it, make sure you got it right...?”
Lisa unstrapped the kit, took out the tape, put it back in, switched
the set to _record_, and turned it off again. “I’d better try it with
the helmet, don’t you think?” she said doubtfully.
“Sure. Good idea.” The big mechanic beamed down at her as if he had
personally built the whole combination, and not just the small machine.
But when he reached to help her adjust the wire trailing from the mike
in the headpiece, she shook her head and waved him off:
“I’ve got to be able to do it myself.”
It worked fine. She put three extra rolls of tape in her pocket,
thanked him, and left. The big man watched her go, shaking his head.
“Guts!” he said. “Damn but that babe has guts!” He went back into the
workshop and told his helper, “That bastard Wendt don’t come through,
I bet there ain’t a single man here wouldn’t marry her, the day before
the kid’s born, or the day after. And mop up the sonofabitch before
dinner besides.”
“One mistake, chum.” The helper was married. “You don’t know how easy
it is to get a divorce. Don’t just say _single_ men.”
_Red Dome--Tuesday, October 18, 9:25_ A.M. (_C.S.T._)
The Guards Lieutenant saluted with military precision, which was
worse than wasted on Dr. Chen. The Director was not even annoyed; the
irritation of acknowledging the salute never materialized, because the
necessity to do so failed to impress him. Dr. Chen could be exceedingly
single-minded on some occasions. He had a superior capacity for crisis
action.
He also had a crisis.
And he noted, with some detached part of his mind, that he was enjoying
it enormously.
It was a long time since there had been any real emergency or crisis in
the Dome.
This one was not in it either.
“Very well,” he said crisply. “You will please explain to me how she
contrived to leave?”
“She is a good pilot, Comrade Your Excellency. She holds all necessary
permits and licenses.”
“There are no permits or licenses to leave the Dome,” Chen said coldly,
“except express assignment from me.”
The young officer said nothing.
The Director considered the words that might best express his scorn and
contempt for the so-called Guard who had permitted Maria Harounian to
leave the Dome. Having considered them and relished them, he filed them
in his mind, and said to the dutiful Lieutenant, whose fault it was
_not_:
“I want Harounian found and returned to Dome immediately.”
He did not stress the words. He spoke almost softly. But his meaning
was deadly clear. “Organize a search,” he said. “A full search. I will
review your search plan in fifteen minutes. Excused.”
The lieutenant saluted again. Dr. Chen acknowledged with the faintest
possible nod.