Chapter 11

From the moment I had heard those piercing words from Slovetski’s mouth, I had been obsessed with a vision. A Hell-bomb on the Home Office. America’s eastern seaboard split open. New York a hole in the ocean, from Kingston to Sandy Hook; orange flames spreading across Connecticut and the Pennsylvania corner.

That was gone--and in its place was something worse.

Radiocobalt bombing wouldn’t simply kill locally by a gout of flaring radiation. It would leave the atmosphere filled with colloidal particles of deadly, radioactive Cobalt-60. A little of that could be used to cure cancers and perform miracles. The amount released from the sheathing of cobalt--normal, “safe” cobalt--around a fissioning hydrogen bomb could kill a world. A single bomb of that kind could wipe out all life on Earth, as I remembered my schooling.

I’m no physicist; I didn’t know what the quantities involved might mean, once the equations came off the drafting paper and settled like a ravening storm on the human race. But I had a glimpse of radioactive dust in every breeze, in every corner of every land. Perhaps a handful of persons in Cambodia or Vladivostok or Melbourne might live through it. But there was no question in my mind: If that bomb went off, it was the end of our civilization.

I saw it clearly.

And so, having betrayed the Company to Slovetski’s gang, I came full circle.

Even Judas betrayed only One.

Getting away from the Observatory was simple enough, with Rena shocked and confused enough to look the other way. Finding a telephone near Mount Vesuvius was much harder.

I was two miles from the mountain before I found what I was looking for--a Blue Wing fully-automatic filling station. The electronic scanners clucked worriedly, as they searched for the car I should have been driving, and the policy-punching slot glowed red and receptive, waiting for my order. I ignored them.

What I wanted was inside the little unlocked building--A hushaphone-booth with vision attachment. The important thing was to talk direct to Defoe and only to Defoe. In the vision screen, impedance mismatch would make the picture waver if there was anyone uninvited listening in.

But I left the screen off while I put through my call. The office servo-operator (it was well after business hours) answered blandly, and I said: “Connect me with Defoe, crash priority.”

It was set to handle priority matters on a priority basis; there was neither fuss nor argument, though a persistent buzzing in the innards of the phone showed that, even while the robot was locating Defoe for me, it was double-checking the connection to find out why there was no vision on the screen.

It said briskly, “Stand by, sir,” and I was connected with Defoe’s line--on a remote hookup with the hotel where he was staying, I guessed. I flicked the screen open.

But it wasn’t Defoe on the other end of the line. It was Susan Manchester, with that uncharacteristic, oddly efficient look she had shown at the vaults.

She said crisply, and not at all surprised: “Tom Wills.”

“That’s right,” I said, thinking quickly. Well, it didn’t much matter. I should have realized that Defoe’s secretary, howsoever temporary, would be taking his calls. I said rapidly: “Susan, I can’t talk to you. It has to be Defoe. Take my word for it, it’s important. Please put him on.”

She gave me no more of an argument than the robot had.

In a second, Defoe was on the screen, and I put Susan out of my mind. She must have said something to him, because the big, handsome face was unsurprised, though the eyes were contracted. “Wills!” he snapped. “You fool! Where are you?”

I said, “Mr. Defoe, I have to talk to you. It’s a very urgent matter.”

“Come in and do it, Wills! Not over the telephone.”

I shook my head. “No, sir. I can’t. It’s too, well, risky.”

“Risky for you, you mean!” The words were icily disgusted. “Wills, you have betrayed me. No man ever got away with that. You’re imposing on me, playing on my family loyalty to your dead wife, and I want to tell you that you won’t get away with it. There’s a murder charge against you, Wills! Come in and talk to me--or else the police will pick you up before noon.”

I said with an effort, “I don’t mean to impose on any loyalty, but, in common decency, you ought to hear--”

“Decency!” His face was cold. “You talk about decency! You and that dell’Angela traitor you joined. Decency! Wills, you’re a disgrace to the memory of a decent and honest woman like Marianna. I can only say that I am glad--glad, do you hear me?--that she’s dead and rid of you.”

I said, “Wait a minute, Defoe! Leave Marianna out of this. I only--”

“Don’t interrupt me! God, to think a man I trusted should turn out to be Judas himself! You animal, the Company has protected you from the day you were born, and you try to destroy it. Why, you pitiful idiot, you aren’t fit to associate with the dogs in the kennel of a decent human being!”

There was more. Much, much more. It was a flow of abuse that paralyzed me, less because of what he said than because of who was saying it. Suave, competent Defoe, ranting at me like a wounded Gogarty! I couldn’t have been more astonished if the portrait of Millen Carmody had whispered a bawdy joke from the frontispiece of the Handbook.

I stood there, too amazed to be furious, listening to the tirade from the midget image in the viewplate. It must have lasted for three or four minutes; then, almost in mid-breath, Defoe glanced at something outside my range of vision, and stopped his stream of abuse. I started to cut in while I could, but he held up one hand quickly.

He smiled gently. Very calmly, as though he had not been damning me a moment before, he said: “I shall be very interested to hear what you have to say.”

That floored me. It took me a second to shake the cobwebs out of my brain before I said waspishly, “If you hadn’t gone through all that jabber, you would have heard it long ago.”

The midget in the scanner shrugged urbanely. “True,” he conceded. “But then, Thomas, I wouldn’t have had you.”

And he reached forward and clicked off the phone. Tricked! Tricked and trapped! I cursed myself for stupidity. While he kept me on the line, the call was being traced--there was no other explanation. And I had fallen for it!

I slapped the door of the booth open and leaped out.

I got perhaps ten feet from the booth.

Then a rope dropped over my shoulders. Its noose yanked tight around my arms, and I was being dragged up, kicking futilely. I caught a glimpse of the broad Latin faces gaping at me from below, then two men on a rope ladder had me.

I was dragged in through the bottom hatch of a big helicopter with no markings. The hatch closed. Facing me was a lieutenant of expediters.

The two men tumbled in after me and reeled in the rope ladder, as the copter dipped and swerved away. I let myself go limp as the rope was loosened around me; when my hands were free I made my bid.

I leaped for the lieutenant; my fist caught him glancingly on the throat, sending him reeling and choking backward. I grabbed for the hard-pellet gun at his hip--he was pawing at it--and we tumbled across the floor.