On the day of his discharge his skin was still tender but the burns had
healed. He felt weak but that was not surprising in view of the number
of days he had spent in bed. The department managed without him and
when difficulties developed he relayed brief orders through Randy. She
was his buffer. He didn’t want to take part in running the plant until
he had more insight on Soleri.
He learned many things, but there were technicalities to be mastered
which he was sure he could pick up faster on the outside. The doctor
wanted to send a nurse with him but he refused, finally consenting to
have Randy accompany him. Perhaps he was taking a needless risk. But he
was convinced he could handle Randy.
It was dark when they left the factory hospital, and took the
elevator to the roof. He leaned on Randy somewhat more than he had
to. It was a pleasure and a distraction. But he remained on his guard
notwithstanding.
Randy was not a secretary at all. The files had revealed that much.
Soleri had been so anxious to find out what was holding up the project
that he had hired a first-rate psychologist and had put her in a
position where she could work without being suspected. The psychologist
was Randy. She wouldn’t fool easy. And that, in a sense, was a
challenge. If he could get by her he could convince anyone.
An aircab was waiting. He leaned very close to her as she helped him
in. He was almost sure that his empathy should tell him something and
it did. Her eyes darkened, and she became obviously disturbed by his
nearness. He settled back in the cab and waited.
The driver turned about, and asked: “Where to?”
He pretended not to hear. The driver repeated the question and Randy
gave him the address. The information itself didn’t tell him much but
his sensitivity filled in the missing details. She had been to the
apartment many times, and stayed late.
They didn’t talk much on the way. The cab flitted over the city
lights with a steady droning. He became uneasy. She too was sensing a
strangeness in him. He regretted his decision to have her accompany
him, and resolved to send her home as soon as he could reasonably do so.
They landed on the roof of a tall apartment building. She paid the
driver and told him not to wait. No chance for subtlety there.
“I’m quite all right,” he said as she helped him out. “It was just a
momentary touch of dizziness.”
“I know,” she said. “But you’re not going to get away. I intend to
make sure you’re all right.” And that was that.
Soleri’s apartment was on the twentieth floor. It was elaborate and
large, and furnished with exquisite taste. He approved of Soleri’s
taste--in more than one respect. He sat down and looked it over.
“Glad to be back?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Sit and rest. I’ll punch dinner. Anything special?”
“Nothing special. Whatever you want.” She touched his arm as she went
into the kitchen. He wished she hadn’t. He had enough to contend with
without that.
Presently she came back. “We’ll have something light and nourishing in
a few minutes,” she said.
She went to the recording system and began examining the calls that had
come in during Soleri’s absence. He had to remind himself that it was
an absence. Officially Soleri hadn’t died.
He watched her intently. He wished her eyes weren’t brown and wonderful.
“Anything important?” he said with an effort.
“A message from Andrew Taft. I told him you were hurt but not badly. He
wants you to visit him next week.”
Andrew Taft was president of TRANSPORTATION. Everyone knew that.
But there wasn’t anything in the files to give him a lead as to the
duration or extent of their friendship. Perhaps Soleri had known Taft
from boyhood. He didn’t want to put his newly acquired personality to
such a severe test before he could be more certain of the facts.
“Make an excuse for me,” he said.
She looked at him inquiringly. “Do you think you should? Eleanor will
be there. She heard about the accident and is coming in from Mars.”
He might have known there would be some such complication. Soleri was a
powerful and attractive man and there had been more than one woman in
his life. It was another unexpected pitfall, a further challenge to his
wariness. He grimaced. “Eleanor’s a nice girl but she means nothing to
me,” he said.
“Oh?” Randy’s lips tightened. “Is that why you’re going to marry her?”
* * * * *
At the moment he hated Soleri, empathy or not. If it had been at all
possible he would have dropped the pretense. But he couldn’t--and he
had to depend solely on his abnormal sensitivity. He told Randy what
she _wanted_ to hear.
“You know how it is,” he said blandly. “I’ve got to get that motor
built. It’s costing far more than we expected. Somebody’s got to play
company politics.”
She seemed a trifle mollified. “You needn’t tell me. I’ve had a
thorough grounding in business psychology.” She moved quickly past him.
“Dinner’s ready,” she said. “You’ve got to build up your strength--for
company politics.”
He would have preferred silence but Randy insisted on holding up both
ends of the conversation. Nothing important was discussed, but it gave
him a chance to break down her defenses, and get to know her better.
After dinner they sat over a drink, and talked. Much of his empathy was
tied up in the difficult task of simply duplicating Soleri. He couldn’t
get through to her with the accuracy he would have liked. But he did
succeed in turning the conversation from Eleanor. She was willing.
After the first flash of hatred she was completely willing to forget
the girl existed.
She looked at the clock. “Time for bed,” she said.
It was awkward. He started to get up, avoiding her eyes. “I guess so,”
he said, letting her assist him, thrilled by her nearness.
There was nothing else he could do. She was attractive and he wanted
her for himself. But she was desperately and unhappily in love with
Soleri. He couldn’t let her know.
“Randy,” he whispered softly as she clung to him. Laura seemed suddenly
unreal and very far away, and he wished he’d never heard of Eleanor.
Later he awakened to find her lying beside him, tense and still. She
hadn’t been sleeping. In a surge of apprehension he wondered if she had
discovered the truth about him.
“Is anything the matter?” he asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? Is that why you’re not sleeping?”
“Well, there is. I was thinking,” she said. “It was what I saw when I
ran into the office right after the explosion. The smoke was very thick
and you were lying behind what was left of the desk. For an instant I
wondered which one of you had died.”
“How could you tell?” he said. “I was badly burned. My face--”
“Your eyes are brown,” she said. “Brown. Anyway I knew. You _couldn’t_
die.”
“Try to forget about it,” he said. “That nightmare is over. I’m alive.”
“And so is Eleanor.”
He sighed, wishing again that he could tell her everything. But Soleri
would never deny the romance-shattering reality that stood between
them. “You’ve always known about her.”
“So I have.” She moved closer to him. “I’m content with this brief
dream of happiness.”
That was better. He caressed her lightly, tenderly. “It’s all right,”
he said soothingly. “Nothing has changed between us.”
“I know, darling,” she murmured. He thought he heard her laugh before
she went to sleep.
At last he fell asleep.
V
For the next few days Talbot was feverishly busy. Just what inner
drives had dominated Soleri and how would he have reacted to any given
situation? What had been his precise relationships with the people
Talbot would be meeting daily? Fortunately there was an accumulation
of recorded calls and messages. He played and re-played them. He
subscribed to a clipping service and pieced together a fairly complete
account of Soleri’s social activities.
* * * * *
There were other rewarding sources. He scanned minutes of
TRANSPORTATION meetings. He examined financial statements to give
himself another sidelight on the life he had usurped. Pictures,
letters--even the apartment--added to his growing knowledge.
Handwriting presented no difficulty. He found Soleri’s signature, and
duplicated it on second trial. Soon he didn’t even have to try--it
became second nature to him to forge Soleri’s name on letters and
documents. Mannerisms came easily too. Ways of walking, the quick
thoughtful smile that appeared at intervals, the clothes he wore and
how he wore them---all these distinguishing characteristics he copied
with little conscious effort. He was as much Soleri as another person
could be.
He rested and regained his strength, painstakingly sharpening himself
until he was ready. Randy appeared frequently on the call plate,
keeping him informed of what went on at the plant. But she didn’t
return to the apartment. He would have rejoiced in her presence but he
didn’t ask her. It would have meant taking a dangerous, unnecessary
risk.
Finally he went back to work, nodding cheerfully to the receptionist in
the outer office as he turned left at the stairs. There was no trace of
damage in his private office. It had been rebuilt and refurnished and
was now exactly as he remembered it.
Randy came in at once, cool and beautiful. “I told Frescura you’d like
to see him,” she said. “He’ll be in his lab until noon.”
Frescura, the famous heat and rocket scientist! He’d have to handle
that interview with care. He had no way of knowing how much technical
information the man had imparted to Soleri.
“I’ll see him but I hadn’t planned on it until later,” he said. It was
a false statement, but there was no need to take her completely into
his confidence.
“I’m sorry,” she said with feigned meekness. “I was trying to
anticipate.”
He knew that she was actively hating him for Eleanor. He’d have to find
some way to ease the tension. But at the moment other problems loomed
more urgently. He became expediently stern.
“Forget the secretarial pose,” he growled. “You’re a psychologist.
Your job is to find out who is resorting to deliberate sabotage in the
plant. What does plant protection say about the thermal bomb?”
She met his gaze candidly. “Nothing. Anyone at all might have had
access to the hall.”
“Then we’ll have to work at it from the other end,” he said.
She laid a sheaf of papers on his desk. He knew they were documents
of no great importance. “Shall I tell Frescura you won’t be out?” she
asked.
“I’ll see him,” he said.
She looked at him oddly, and turned to go.
“Randy.”
“Yes?”
He didn’t know exactly what to say, so he tried it out for sound. “I
still want to find out why we’re not getting the motor. But it’s more
than simple sabotage now. A man was killed--a man I regarded as a
friend, even though I didn’t know him well. We’ve got to find out who
is responsible. That comes first. Do you understand?”
Her wonderful brown eyes regarded him steadily. She turned away. “I
understand,” she said.
“Keep it in mind,” he said. He got up and went to see Frescura.
Fred Frescura was a big man with more hair on his face than on his
head. He was nearly bald but his eyebrows and mustache were thick and
black. He had an air of concentration and childlike enjoyment of his
work. Neither impression, decided Talbot, was strictly accurate.
He crumpled a sheet of calculations as Talbot came in, and moved out
from behind the desk. “I’m glad to see you,” he said gruffly. “For a
while we weren’t sure whether you’d been cremated in the holocaust.”
“It was more like an inferno,” said Talbot. “I survived.”
“So I see,” said Frescura. “I tried to get to the hospital but Randy
wouldn’t let me in. For three days she camped in the corridor.”
“She takes excellent care of me,” acknowledged Talbot. He glanced at
the desk and suddenly turned pale.
Frescura laughed reassuringly. “Don’t worry. These capsules are
harmless or _I_ wouldn’t be here.” He picked up a few of the tiny
black cylinders and juggled them casually. “I was just attempting a
reconstruction. What size was the thermal capsule which you saw?”
Talbot touched the spheres gingerly. They were jet-black and
fathomlessly unreflective. “This, I think,” he said. “Or possibly this.”
Frescura laid five of the capsules down, rolling the other two in
his hand. “I’m afraid that doesn’t help much,” he said at last. “It
depends, you see, on how thick the covering was, and we can only guess
at that. Let’s say the temperature was over a hundred thousand degrees.”
The temperature didn’t interest Talbot. He didn’t care by how much he’d
nearly been vaporized. “Why don’t we use capsule material like this?”
he said. “It ought to make a good tube liner.”
Frescura’s brows seemed to thicken and grow larger. “Are you seriously
suggesting that I start my experiments from the beginning? Four years
ago I told you we couldn’t use it. Now you act as if it’s something
new.”
Talbot got out of the dilemma hastily. He regretted that he had not
spent more time on the technical aspects. He’d tried to be thorough,
but failures were never recorded as thoroughly as triumphs.
“It’s a thought,” he said, hoping the remark would pass for executive
stubbornness. “Maybe we overlooked something.”
“Maybe we _didn’t_,” growled Frescura. “The thinnest skin we can
make will hold a piece of matter at a hundred thousand degrees for
ten minutes. If we make it two inches thick it will last twenty-nine
minutes and fourteen seconds. Constructed out of this a liner that
would do us any good would be a quarter mile in diameter at its widest
section. Is that practical?”
“You might look into it again. You may have some new ideas,” said
Talbot. He had avoided stumbling badly--and he’d learned something,
although he should have known it in advance. The thermal bomb had been
made in the plant. He looked up quickly. “Just when did the technicians
arrive that morning? How many were in early?”
“I went over that,” said Frescura. “So did plant protection. At least
fifty men were asked in ahead of their shift. Several came in without
being asked. But none of them were near your office.”
It was puzzling and significant. Soleri had been in charge for years
with no attempt on his life _until he, Talbot, had been brought in_.
Talbot filed the fact away for future reference. Someone had known
Talbot was going to come in that morning. Soleri had made it plain that
Randy knew. But who else?
Whom besides Randy had Soleri talked to? He couldn’t ask, but it was
of vital importance. Whoever it was he had carefully manufactured the
bomb in the laboratory, calculating the time by the thickness of the
skin. That somebody had stuffed the capsule in his pocket and gone to
Soleri’s office. When only a few seconds remained, he had rolled it
through the door, giving himself just enough time to escape. But who
was he? Talbot had no idea.
He discussed the thermal bomb for a moment or two and then switched to
the progress on the motor. He listened to Frescura, who was more than
willing to talk. Soon, unless he could slide out of the invitation, he
was going to have to answer some far more pointed questions from Taft.
Still discussing high, very high, and stellar temperature chemistry,
they went into the main experimental shop. This gave Talbot the
opportunity of meeting the men he was supposed to have worked with for
several years. There was a great difference between a picture and a
page of statistics--even psychologically loaded statistics--and the
man himself. He did a creditable job of imitating Soleri as he spoke
to them. He had gone a long way toward merging with the dead man’s
personality. But there was always an incalculable risk involved in
anything he might say or do.
Frescura stopped expectantly beside a large construction site
enclosure. “This is the latest,” he said in a hushed voice.
Talbot looked at the work in progress critically. He was still at sea
as to its more technical aspects. “Is this the project we were working
on before the accident?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” Frescura replied. “I’ve mentioned the theory before. But
the application is new.”
Talbot was relieved. He wouldn’t be expected to know much about it. “Go
over it for my benefit,” he urged. “Quite a bit has happened in the
interval.”
Frescura glanced at him queerly, and he regretted having made the
request. “You ought to remember this,” said the scientist. “Well,
it’s off the mainline of our experiments, but I thought we might get
some constructive results. We make the tube of dissimilar metals, one
jacketing the other. When it is heated we get a thermocouple effect.
An electric charge is generated. The charge on the inside of the tube
repels the exhaust molecules so that they don’t actually come in
contact with the inside surface. This reduces both heating and erosion.”
Talbot rubbed his head. “I remember. Is it ready to go?”
“It is,” said Frescura grimly. “But don’t stand there unless you want
another accident.”
Talbot got out of the way hastily. He was blundering in practically
every statement he made. There was far more to a person than
personality, or his outward appearance. In Talbot’s particular case
knowledge was lacking--not textbook information, but intimate details
that could be acquired only by working closely with the man he was
impersonating. So far it hadn’t been serious. But he’d have to watch
himself.
Frescura moved a switch, and there was a rumble within the enclosure. A
tiny, barely visible flame shot out a foot from where Talbot had been
standing. The rumble rose to a shriek, and quickly passed beyond the
range of hearing. The flame disappeared, but Talbot could still feel
the heat.
Frescura picked up a wrench and tossed it into the path of the exhaust.
The instrument vanished and the huge curved backstop a hundred feet
away was suddenly coated with a thin film of molten metal. Frescura
grinned at him.
“You’ve got to watch these things,” he said. He peered into an
eyepiece on the enclosure, making several adjustments before he seemed
satisfied. “Take a look,” he said to Talbot.
Talbot looked, his eyes gradually growing accustomed to the intense
light that passed through the dense filters. He could see the inside
of the rocket tube, and the fierce incandescence shooting by. Actually
none of the exhaust gasses touched the walls of the tube, for there
was a static area an inch in thickness next to the wall where nothing
seemed to penetrate.
As he tried to see more clearly exactly what was happening the
enclosure began to vibrate again, shaking the foundation. But the metal
held. The shriek declined to a rumble and then the sound died away
completely.
Talbot blinked and straightened up. Frescura was jotting down
readings from the instruments on the enclosure. He made a few quick
calculations. “The test corresponds to a rocket speed of thirty
thousand miles a second,” he said.
It was a long way from what they wanted, but it was about fifteen
times better than anything that had been attained before. “Not bad,”
Talbot said, cautiously. “Maybe we should settle for this. One sixth
the speed of light. Twenty-five years to the nearest star.”
Frescura scowled at him. “Make it thirty,” he said. “They’ve got to get
up speed and slow down. Thirty to the star and thirty back. Sixty years
for the round trip, not counting exploration time.”
“I understand,” Talbot said. “But with a young crew--boys not over
twenty-two or three--it’s possible to send a ship to the nearest star
and reasonably expect it to return.”
“They’ll be eighty when they come back,” said Frescura. “Their friends
will all be dead.”
“There are some lads who will volunteer--if the rewards are high
enough.”
“No doubt,” said Frescura. “But there’s one detail which prevents
it--building a rocket motor which will last for more than a few
seconds.”
“You’ve already accomplished a great deal,” said Talbot.
“This?” Frescura laughed. “No good at all. You saw what just happened.”
“I did. You shut off the motor.”
Frescura looked at Talbot with sour amusement. “It was the automatics
that cut off the flow of fuel. Didn’t you see it? The inner charge
repelled matter, but it _couldn’t stop radiation_. Radiation heated
the tube. As it grew hot beyond a certain temperature the thermocouple
charge diminished, intensifying the heat transfer to the tube. When it
went, it fell apart in a hurry.”
Talbot frowned. “There’s no way around it?”
“None I know of. I’ll keep trying of course. With another hundred
million dollars we might make this work even though it’s far from what
we’re after.”
Talbot shook his head in admiration. Frescura tossed huge sums about
with utmost ease. “Keep with it,” he said. “We’ve got to lick this or
it will finish us.”
“We’ll come out on top,” said Frescura optimistically.
Unfortunately Talbot didn’t have the same confidence. “Economize where
you can,” he cautioned.
“There is no such thing as economy in research,” Frescura affirmed.
“There had better be. We’re running low. Accounting is beginning to ask
questions. We’ll have to go to the board of directors before long.”
“I guess so. The accident cost plenty.” Frescura leaned against the
enclosure, rubbing it with unconscious affection. “If you need help,
let me know. I’ll add my weight to yours.”
“I’ll let you know,” said Talbot as he walked away.
The trouble with Frescura was that he was a theoretical scientist,
completely indifferent to cost. As he went through the plant he saw
countless examples of waste. There was endless duplication, and the
place seemed overstaffed. But, though he could undoubtedly reduce costs
with efficient administration, that was not the most vital problem.
He had to locate and unmask a man who did not shrink from cold-blooded
murder. It couldn’t have been Soleri. A successful saboteur would
not have sought out Talbot to help him. Neither would he have killed
himself. And it could not have been Randy. The trouble had begun long
before she had been hired. It wasn’t Frescura, for he had not only
initiated the project. He had pushed it through with all the influence
at his command.
Taft was still unaccounted for. But he was the president of the company
and it was inconceivable that he would launch a criminal conspiracy
against his own interests.
Nevertheless Talbot made up his own mind. His extreme sensitivity was
his most valuable weapon. He intended to find out just how far it would
take him. He completed the tour of the plant and went back to the
office.
He called Randy, and immediately took up the problem of Taft. “I still
haven’t answered his invitation,” he told her.
Her eyes clouded. “I know,” she said. “I’ll notify the department heads
that you won’t be in the plant for a few days--beginning Wednesday.”
“I’ll be here,” he said. “I want you to dream up an excuse why I can’t
go. Make it good. I trust your social sense.”
“You can’t do that,” she protested. “Have you seen the latest statement
from accounting?”
“I have. We’ll need funds before long.”
“You don’t turn down an invitation from the president when you may need
his help.”
“You do when there are graver issues at stake. I’ve got to begin
somewhere. The top is a good place.”
“A dangerous place,” she said.
“I’m not thinking about that.”
“You’d better,” she said. “Unless--have you got a cushion?”
“In a way,” he said. “Somebody wants this project to fail, badly enough
kill anyone who stands in his way. Good, we’ll let it come close to
failure. We’ll see if there is any attempt made to interfere--”
“You’re the boss,” she shrugged.
“I hope it works.”
“It will.”
He flung himself into his work for the remainder of the afternoon.
Facts and figures went into his head and what came out was a reasonable
duplication of what Soleri had known.
He finished late. Most of the office force had gone home. A few
technicians were working in the shop. Tired and numb he took an aircab.
Twenty moments later he was letting himself into his apartment. He
wasn’t imagining it. There was someone in the apartment. Still, Soleri
would inevitably have visitors now and then. It was nothing to be
afraid of. He went in.
Randy smiled at him. “Hello, darling,” she said.