Roger helped the boy up, angrily. "You're not going to do anything
about this?"
"What can I do? Nobody saw who the men were."
Roger grabbed the boy's hand, helped him to his feet, and turned
angrily to the door. In the failing light outside the improbability of
the attack struck through him strongly. He turned to the boy, his face
dark. "David," he said evenly, "you wouldn't be making up stories
about feeling that gun in your ribs, would you?"
David shook his head vigorously, eyes still wide with fear. "Honest,
dad. I told you the truth."
"But they _couldn't_ have shot you in the chest without breaking the
skin--" He glanced down at the boy's blouse and jacket, and stopped
suddenly, seeing the blackened holes in the ripped cloth. He stooped
down and sniffed the holes suspiciously, and shivered suddenly in the
cold evening air.
The burned holes smelled like gunpowder.
* * * * *
"Strang, you must have been wrong." The large man settled back in his
chair, his graying hair smoothed over a bald spot. "Someone trying to
kill you I could see--there's plenty of espionage going on, and you're
doing important work here. But your boy!" The chief of the Barrier
Base Security shook his head. "You must have been mistaken."
"But I _wasn't_ mistaken!" Roger Strang sat forward in his chair, his
hands gripping the arms until his knuckles were white. "I told you
exactly what happened. They got him as he came off the elevator, and
shot at him. Not at me, Morrel, at my son. They just clubbed me in the
face to get me out of the way--"
"What sort of men?" Morrel's eyes were sharp.
Roger scowled, running his hand through his hair. "It was too dark to
see. They wore hats and field jackets. The gun could be identified by
ballistics. But they were _fast_, Morrel. They knew who they were
looking for."
Morrel rose suddenly, his face impatient. "Strang," he said. "You've
been here at the Base for quite awhile. Ever since a month after the
war, isn't that right? August, 2078? Somewhere around there, I know.
But you've been working hard. I think maybe a rest would do you some
good--"
"Rest!" Roger exploded. "Look, man--I'm not joking. This isn't the
first time. The boy had a monowheel accident three weeks ago, and he
swore he was riding in a safe lane where he belonged. It looked like
an accident then--now it looks like a murder attempt. The slugs from
the gun _must_ be in the building--embedded in the plasterwork
somewhere. Surely you could try to trace the gun." He glared at the
man's impassive face bitterly, "Or maybe you don't want to trace the
gun--"
Morrel scowled. "I've already checked on it. The gun wasn't registered
in the Base. Security has a check on every firearm within a fifty-mile
range. The attackers must have been outsiders."
Roger's face flushed. "That's not true, Morrel," he said softly, "and
you know it's not true."
Morrel shrugged. "Have it your own way," he said, indifferently.
"Take a rest, Strang. Go home. Get some rest. And don't bother me with
any more of your fairy tales." He turned suddenly on Roger. "And be
careful what _you_ do with guns, Strang. The only thing about this
that I _do_ know is that somebody shot a pistol off and scared hell
out of your son. You were the only one around, as far as I know. I
don't know your game, but you'd better be careful--"
* * * * *
Strang left Security Headquarters, and crossed across to the Labs,
frustrated and angry. His mind spun over the accident--incredulous,
but more incredulous that Morrel would practically laugh at him. He
stopped by the Labs building to watch the workmen putting up a large
electronic projector in one of the test yards. Work was going ahead.
But so slowly.
Roger was aware of the tall thin man who had joined him before he
looked around. Martin Drengo put a hand on his shoulder. "Been
avoiding me lately?"
"Martin!" Roger Strang turned, his face lighting up. "No, not avoiding
you--I've been so busy my own wife hasn't seen me in four days. How
are things in Maintenance?"
The thin man smiled sadly. "How are things ever in Maintenance? First
a railroad breaks down, then there's a steel strike, then some
paymaster doesn't make a payroll--the war knocked things for a loop,
Roger. Even now things are still loopy. And how are things in
Production?"
Roger scowled. "Let's have some coffee," he said.
They sat in a back corner booth of the Base Dispensary as Roger told
about David. Martin Drengo listened without interruption. He was a
thin man from top to bottom, a shock of unruly black hair topping an
almost cadaverous face, blue eyes large behind thick lenses. His whole
body was like a skeleton, his fingers long and bony as he lit a
cigarette. But the blue eyes were quick, and the nods warm and
understanding. He listened, and then he said, "It couldn't have been
an outsider?"