Chapter 16

In the communications room of department 99, Westervelt could actually hear people around him breathing, so hushed was the gathering. Someone was leaning on his shoulder, but he was reluctant to attract attention by moving.

Static sounds and the clicking and humming of various mechanisms about the room suddenly became unnaturally noticable. Glancing this way and that, he discovered that the entire staff had drifted in during the transmission from Yoleen. There were at least two people behind him, to judge by the breathing and the weight on his shoulder. So intense had been the excitement that he did not remember anyone but Smith arriving.

He saw better to the left than to the right, and became conscious of his eye again. Westervelt had drawn up his chair behind and to the left of the operator, and Smith had perched himself on the end of a table behind Joe. Beside the chief stood Simonetta, with Beryl behind her. Parrish was to Westervelt’s left, so he concluded that Lydman and Pauline must be behind him. The grip on his right shoulder felt small to be Lydman’s, but he could not see down at the necessary angle because of the puffiness under his eye.

The broad-shouldered, stocky man on the screen moved to the stairway and looked up straight into their eyes.

“Is this still going out to Terra, Simmons?” he asked.

He had dark hair with a crinkly wave in it, which permitted him to appear less disheveled than the men about him or standing over the body of Gerson. He pulled out a large white handkerchief to wipe the streaming perspiration from his face.

“Yes, sir,” answered the voice of the distant operator. “You’re looking right into the concealed pick-up. I’ll switch the audio from Terra to the loud speaker system, and you can talk to them.”

Westervelt glanced at the other men in the embassy on Yoleen. Several of them obviously suffered from minor injuries. All of them wore expressions of tragedy.

One man in his shirtsleeves was standing with his shoulders against the base of the stairway, head thrown well back, trying to staunch the flow of blood from his nose. Another, with his back to the lens, knelt beside the body of Gerson. A couple of others, looking helpless, were lighting cigarettes.

“I suppose you saw the end of it,” the man on the stairs said.

Smith cleared his throat and leaned over Joe Rosenkrantz’s shoulder.

“We saw,” he answered. “I ... is there any doubt that he’s dead?”

The man on the stairs looked to the group around the body. The doctor shook his bandaged head sadly.

“As much from strain and exhaustion as anything else,” he reported. “The man belonged in a hospital, but some uncanny conditioning drove him on. In the end, his heart gave out.”

The stocky man turned back to the lens.

“You heard that. Except for one man who didn’t know at the time what was going on, we did the best we could. I’m Delaney, by the way, in charge here.”

Smith identified himself, and agreed that Gerson had looked to be unmanageable.

“Do you think you can find out what they used?” he asked. “I gather that you never got anything out of him since the time you picked him up. Did that part of it go according to plan?”

“Oh, yes,” said Delaney. “We even got back the little torch we sent him, the way you plotted for us. It looked used, too; but now I’m wondering if they let him cut his way out.”

“I wouldn’t doubt it,” said Smith gloomily. “I’m afraid we didn’t look very bright on this one. We seem to have underestimated the Yoleenites badly. There isn’t too much information on them available here.”

“Nor here, to tell the truth,” said Delaney. “Which reminds me--our Captain MacLean has been after me for a long time to put more pressure on the D.I.R. about that. Could you duplicate your tape and send them a copy? It would save us another transmission, and you might like to add your own comments.”

Smith promised to have it done. He also offered, to soothe Captain MacLean, to send an extra copy to the Space Force.

There seemed to be nothing more to say. The scene on the screen blanked out, as the distant operator spoke to Rosenkrantz on audio only from his own shot-up office. Then it was over.

Westervelt, aware that the pressure on his shoulder was gone, looked around. Lydman had his arm about a shaken Pauline. The ex-spacer’s expression was blank, but the hardness of his eyes made the youth shiver. For a second, he thought he detected a slight resemblance to the man who had come bounding down the stairs on Yoleen, leaving criss-cross trails of rocket smoke in the air.

That’s crazy! he thought the next instant, and he lost the resemblance.

He blinked, fingered his tender eye, and looked around at the others. Everyone was subdued, staring at the blank and quiet receiver or at the floor. Westervelt was surprised to see that Beryl was crying. She raised a forefinger to scrub the tears from her cheek.

Hesitantly, Westervelt took the neatly folded handkerchief from his breast pocket and held it out.

Beryl scrubbed the other cheek, looked at the handkerchief without raising her eyes to his, and accepted it. She blotted her eyes, examined the cloth, and whispered, “Sorry, Willie. I think I got make-up on it.”

Smith stirred uncomfortably at the whisper. He stood up and spoke one short word with a depth of emotion. Then he kicked the leg of the table to relieve his feelings.

Rosenkrantz swiveled around in his chair, waiting to see if any other calls were to be made. Smith took a deep breath.

“You’ll make copies of the tape when you can, Joe?”

“Sure,” said the operator, sympathetically.

“Well,” said Lydman, at the rear of the group, “that’s another one lost. Tomorrow we’ll open a permanent file on Yoleen, as Pete suggests.”

“Yes, I imagine they’ll give us more business,” agreed Parrish.

Lydman growled.

“I’ll give them the business next time!” he threatened. “Well, that kind of damps the pile for tonight. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m in no mood now to be clever.”

Smith straightened up abruptly.

“Now ... now ... wait a minute!” he spluttered. “I mean, we all feel pretty low, naturally. Still, this wasn’t the main ... serious as this was, we were trying to push on this other case, to get a start anyway.”

Here we go again, thought Westervelt. Shall I try to trip him up if anything happens, or shall I just get out of the way?

He recalled the man in the embassy on Yoleen, holding a stained handkerchief to his bloody nose, and measured the size of his own with the tip of a forefinger. On the other hand, if there should be a melee, it would certainly cover a little item like a puffy eye. He wondered if he would have the guts to poke out his head at the proper instant, and was rather afraid that he would.

Parrish was murmuring about sticking to the job in hand, trying to support Smith without arousing the antagonism of an open argument. Lydman seemed unconvinced.

“Why don’t we all have a round of coffee?” suggested Simonetta. “If we can just sit down a few minutes and pull ourselves together--”

Smith looked at her gratefully.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s the least we can do, Bob. This was a shock to us all, but the girls felt it more. I don’t believe any of them wants to hit the street all shaken up like this. Right Si?”

“I would like to sit down somewhere,” said Simonetta.

“Here!” exclaimed Westervelt, leaping up. He had forgotten that he had been rooted to the chair since before the others had crept into the room during the transmission from Yoleen.

“Never mind, Willie,” Simonetta said. “I didn’t mean I was collapsing. Come on, Beryl, let’s see if there’s any coffee or tea left.”