Drengo hunched his shoulders forward. "I don't get it," he said.
"David has done nothing to give him enemies." He drew on his
cigarette. "What did Morrel have to say?"
"He laughed at me! Wouldn't even listen to me. Told me to go home and
go to bed, that I was all wet. I tell you, Martin, I _saw_ it! You
know I wouldn't lie, you know I don't see things that don't happen."
"Yes," said Martin, glumly. "I believe you, all right. But I can't see
why your son should be the target. You'd be more likely." He stood up,
stretching his long legs. "Look, old boy. Take Morrel's advice, at
least temporarily. Go home and get some sleep now; you're all worked
up. I'll go in and talk to Morrel. Maybe I can handle that old buzzard
better than you can."
Roger watched his friend amble down the aisle and out of the store. He
felt better now that he had talked to Drengo. Smiling to himself, he
finished off his coffee. Many a scrape he and Martin had seen through
together. He remembered that night of horror when the bomb fell on the
city, his miraculous rescue, the tall thin figure, reflecting the red
glare from his glasses, forcing his way through the burning timbers of
the building, tearing Roger's leg loose from the rubble covering it;
the frightful struggle through the rubbish, fighting off fear-crazed
mobs that sought to stop them, rob them, kill them. They had made the
long trek together, Martin and he, the Evacuation Road down to
Maryland, the Road of Horrors, lined with the rotting corpses of the
dead and the soon-dead, the dreadful refuse of that horrible night.
Martin Drengo had been a stout friend to Roger; he'd been with Martin
the night he'd met Ann; took the ring from Martin's finger when they
stood at the altar on their wedding day; shared with Martin his
closest confidence.
Roger sighed and paid for the coffee. What to do? The boy was home
now, recovering from the shock of the attack. Roger caught an
out-bound tri-wheel, and sped down the busy thoroughfare toward his
home. If Martin could talk to Morrel, and get something done, perhaps
they could get a line. Somehow, perhaps they could trace the
attackers. In the morning he'd see Martin again, and they could figure
out a scheme.
But he didn't have a chance to see Martin again. For at 11:30 that
night, the marauders struck again. For the third time.
* * * * *
Through his sleep he heard a door close down below, and sat bolt
upright in bed, his heart pounding wildly. Only a tiny sound, the
click of a closing door--
Ann was sitting up beside him, brown hair close around her head, her
body tense. "Roger!" she whispered. "Did you hear something?"
Roger was out of bed, bounding across the room, into the hall. Blood
pounded in his ears as he rushed to David's room, stopped short
before the open door.
The shots rang out like whip cracks, and he saw the yellow flame from
the guns. There were two men in the dark room, standing at the bed
where the boy lay rolled into a terrified knot. The guns cracked again
and again, ripping the bedding, bursting the pillow into a shower of
feathers, tearing the boy's pajamas from his thin body, a dozen
blazing shots--
Roger let out a strangled cry, grabbed one of the men by the throat,
in a savage effort to stop the murderous pistols. The other man caught
him a coarse blow behind the ear, and he staggered hard against the
wall. Dully he heard the door slam, heavy footsteps down the corridor,
running down the stairs.
He struggled feebly to his feet, glancing at the still form on the
bed. Choking back a sob he staggered down the hall, shouting to Ann as
he went down the stairs, redoubling his speed as he heard the purr of
autojets in the driveway. In a moment he was in his own car,
frantically stamping on the starter. It started immediately, the motor
booming, and the powerful jet engines forced the heavy car ahead
dangerously, taking the corner on two of its three wheels. He knew
that Ann would call Security, and he raced to gain on the tail lights
that were disappearing down the winding residential road to the main
highway. Throwing caution to the winds, Roger swerved the car across a
front lawn, down between two houses, into an alley, and through
another driveway, gaining three blocks. Ahead, at the junction with
the main Base highway he saw the long black autojet turn right.
* * * * *
Roger snaked into traffic on the highway and bore down on the black
car. Traffic was light because of the late hour, but the patrol was on
the road and might stop him instead of the killers. The other car was
traveling at top speed, swerving around the slower cars. Roger gained
slowly. He fingered the spotlight, preparing to snap it in the
driver's eyes. Taking a curve at 90, he crept up alongside the black
car as he heard the siren of a patrol car behind him. Cursing, he
edged over on the black car, snapped the spotlight full in the face of
the driver--
The screaming siren forced him off the road, and he braked hard, his
hands trembling. A patrolman came over to the car, gun drawn. He took
a quick look at Roger, and his face tightened. "Mr. Strang," he said
sharply. "We've been looking for you. You're wanted at Security."
"That car," Roger started weakly. "You've got to stop that car I was
chasing--"
"Never mind that car," the patrolman snarled. "It's you they want. Hop
out. We'll go in the patrol car."
"You've got to stop them--"
The patrolman fingered his gun. "Security wants to talk to you, Mr.
Strang. Hop out."
Roger moved dazedly from his car. He didn't question the patrolman; he
hardly even heard him. His mind raced in a welter of confusion, trying
desperately to refute the brilliant picture in his mind from that
split-second that the spotlight had rested on the driver of the black
car, trying to fit the impossible pieces into their places. For the
second man in the black autojet had been John Morrel, chief of Barrier
Base Security, and the driver had been Martin Drengo--
* * * * *
The man at the desk was a stranger to Roger Strang. He was an elderly
man, stooped, with graying hair and a small clipped mustache that
seemed to stick out like antennae. He watched Roger impassively with
steel gray eyes, motioning him to a chair.
"You led us a merry chase," he said flatly, his voice brittle. "A very
merry chase. The alarm went out for you almost an hour ago."
Strang's cheeks were red with anger. "My son was shot tonight. I was
trying to follow the killers--"
"Killers?" The man raised his eyebrows.
"Yes, killers!" Roger snapped. "Do I have to draw you a picture? They
shot my son down in his bed."
The gray-haired man stared at him for a long time. "Well," he said
finally in a baffled tone. "Now I've heard everything."
It was Roger's turn to stare. "Can't you understand what I've said?
_My son was murdered._"
The gray-haired man flipped a pencil down on the desk impatiently.
"Mr. Strang," he said elaborately. "My name is Whitman. I flew down
here from Washington tonight, after being called from my bed by the
commanding officer of this base. I am the National Chief of the
Federal Bureau of Security, Mr. Strang, and I am not interested in
fairy tales. I would like you to come off it now, and answer some
questions for me. And I don't want double-talk. I want answers. Do I
make myself quite clear?"
Roger stared at him, finally nodded his head. "Quite," he said
sourly.
Whitman hunched forward in his chair. "Mr. Strang, how long have you
been working in the Barrier Base?"
"Five years. Ever since the bombing of New York."
Whitman nodded. "Oh, yes. The bombing of New York." He looked sharply
at Roger. "And how old are you, Mr. Strang?"
Roger looked up, surprised. "Thirty-two, of course. You have my
records. Why are you asking?"
The gray-haired man lit a cigarette. "Yes, we have your records," he
said offhandedly. "Very interesting records, quite normal, quite in
order. Nothing out of the ordinary." He stood up and looked out on the
dark street. "Just one thing wrong with your records, Mr. Strang. They
aren't true."
Roger stared. "This is ridiculous," he blurted. "What do you mean,
they aren't true?"
Whitman took a deep breath, and pulled a sheet of paper out of a sheaf
on his desk. "It says here," he said, "that you are Roger Strang, and
that you were born in Indianola, Iowa, on the fourteenth of June,
2051. That your father was Jason Strang, born 11 August, 2023, in
Chicago, Illinois. That you lived in Indianola until you were twelve,
when your father moved to New York City, and was employed with the
North American Electronics Laboratories. That you entered
International Polytechnic Institute at the age of 21, studying physics
and electronics, and graduated in June 2075 with the degree of
Bachelor of Electronics. That you did further work, taking a Masters
and Doctorate in Electronics at Polytech in 2077."
Whitman took a deep breath. "That's what it says here. A very ordinary
record. But there is no record there of your birth in Indianola, Iowa,
in 2051 or any other time. There is no record there of your father,
the alleged Jason Strang, nor in Chicago. No one by the name of Jason
Strang was ever employed by North American Electronics. No one by the
name of Roger Strang ever attended Polytech." Whitman watched him with
cold eyes. "To the best of our knowledge, and according to all
available records, _there never was anyone named Roger Strang until
after the bombing of New York_."
Roger sat stock still, his mind racing. "This is silly," he said
finally. "Perfectly idiotic. Those schools _must_ have records--"
Whitman's face was tight. "They do have records. Complete records. But
the name of Roger Strang is curiously missing from the roster of
graduates in 2075. Or any other year." He snubbed his cigarette
angrily. "I wish you would tell me, and save us both much
unpleasantness. _Just who are you, Mr. Strang, and where do you come
from?_"
Strang stared at the man, his pulse pounding in his head. Filtering
into his mind was a vast confusion, some phrase, some word, some
nebulous doubt that frightened him, made him almost believe that
gray-haired man in the chair before him. He took a deep breath,
clearing his mind of the nagging doubt. "Look here," he said,
exasperated. "When I was drafted for the Barrier Base, they checked
for my origin, for my education and credentials. If they had been
false, I'd have been snapped up right then. Probably shot--they were
shooting people for chewing their fingernails in those days. I
wouldn't have stood a chance."
Whitman nodded his head vigorously. "Exactly!" he snapped. "You
_should_ have been picked up. But you weren't even suspected until we
did a little checking after that accident in the Labs building
yesterday. Somehow, false credentials got through for you. Security
does not like false credentials. I don't know how you did it, but you
did. I want to know how."
"But, I tell you--" Roger stood up, fear suddenly growing in his mind.
He lit a cigarette, took two nervous puffs, and set it down,
forgotten, on the ash-tray. "I have a wife," he said shakily. "I
married her in New York City. We had a son, born in a hospital in New
York City. He went to school there. Surely there must be some kind of
record--"
Whitman smiled grimly, almost mockingly. "Good old New York City," he
snarled. "Married there, you say? Wonderful! Son born there? In the
one city in the country where that information _can never be checked_.
That's very convenient, Mr. Strang. Or whoever you are. I think you'd
better talk."
Roger snubbed out the cigarette viciously. "My son," he said after a
long pause. "He was murdered tonight. Shot down in his bed--"
The Security Chief's face went white. "Garbage!" he snapped. "What
kind of a fool do you think I am, Strang? Your son murdered--bah! When
the alarm went out for you I personally drove to your home. Oddly
enough this wife of yours wasn't at home, but your son was. Nice
little chap. He made us some coffee, and explained that he didn't
know where his parents were, because he'd been asleep all night.
Quietly asleep in his bed--"
The words were clipped out, and rang in Roger's ears, incredibly. His
hand shook violently as he puffed his cigarette, burning his fingers
on the short butt. "I don't believe it," he muttered hollowly. "I saw
it happen--"