"Yes "Adams nodded. "I handed them over to the Agency today. To be processed. Printed up in fake back-dated editions, aged and so on; you seem to know. But—" He returned Lantano's acute gaze. "Hig died too soon. He did not call the artifacts to Runcible's attention, although he had the camera and tape going. There are other Brose agents on Runcible's payroll and they report—and the camera reports—that Runcible does not know; beyond doubt he's absolutely ignorant of the presence—former presence—of the artifacts. So . . ." His voice lowered, became a bewildered mumble. "Something went wrong.
"Yes," Lantano agreed, "something went wrong at the one really critical moment. You're right; Hig was killed an instant too soon. I'll tell you something more. Your friend Lindblom was murdered by a German wartime invention called a Gestalt-macher; it does two distinctly separate jobs: first, it assassinates its victim instantly and without inordinate pain, which, to the German mind, makes it ethically acceptable. And then it lays down a trail of—"
"Clues," Adams interrupted. "I know; we've heard of it. We know it exists in the advanced weapons archives, which naturally only Brose can get into. Then the Alpha-wave pattern that Verne's continuous action monitor picked up-" He was silent, clasping and unclasping his hands. "It was spurious. Laid down deliberately by the Gestaltmacher. Fakes. That's what makes up the Gestalt, clues like that, profile indicators. Did the other clues—"
"All delineated Brose; they agreed. Webster Foote, who will be here any moment, fed the seven data to the Moscow computer and it popped only Brose's card. Just as Megavac 6-V did for you, on the basis of just the single datum. But one—that one—was enough."
"Then," Adams said hoarsely, "Brose did not kill Verne; it was someone else. Who not only wanted Lindblom killed but wanted us to believe Brose did it. An enemy of Brose." His face worked frantically, and Nicholas, watching, realized that the man's world had disintegrated; momentarily, the man had no intellectual, idiocrastic basis by which to orient himself; psychologically he floated, lost in a toneless, untended sea.
Lantano, however, did not seem much moved by Adams' disorganization and despair. He said, sharply, "But the Gestalt-macher was nabbed at the death locus, kept from escaping by Lindblom's alert staff of leadies. The person who set up the macher, who dispatched it with those clue data in it, knew the Lindblom had a death rattle. Don't virtually all Vance-men carry death rattles? You do." He pointed at Adams' neck, and Nicholas saw a hair-thin loop of gold, a band of some unusual metal.
"That is—a fact," Adams admitted, bewildered now to the extent that speech for him was almost impossible.
"And so Brose saw a way of manufacturing a de facto case that he was not the authorizing source for the macher. Since its clues pointed to him, and it is axiomatic that the trail of clues deposited by a macher are spurious, then Foote, whose job it is to know this, knew, as Brose intended, that Brose was to be thought of as the killer—that this was what the killer wanted; and Brose was innocent." He paused. "However, Brose is not innocent. Brose programmed the macher. To indict himself and by that means certify to the police mind his innocence."
Adams said, "I don't understand." He shook his head. "I just do not understand, Lantano; don't say it again—I heard what you said. I know what the words mean. It's just too-"
"Too convoluted," Lantano agreed. "A machine that kills, that also lays down false clues; only in this case the false clues are authentic. We have here, Adams, the ultimate in fakery, the last stage in the evolution of an organization created for the purpose of manufacturing hoaxes. Convincingly. Here's Foote." Lantano rose, turned toward the door. It opened, and a single individual, without, Nicholas noted, a retinue of leadies plus human detectives to guard him, entered, a leather strapless binder-type case under his arm.
"Adams," Foote said. "I'm pleased to see they didn't get to you."
Somberly, with a peculiar weariness, David Lantano introduced everyone around; for the first time he acknowledged Nicholas' presence in regard to the distraught, frightened Yance-man, Joseph Adams.
"I'm sorry, Adams," Lantano said, "but I'm afraid my conference with Mr. Foote is confidential. You'll have to leave."
Huskily, Adams said, "Will you help me or not?" He rose, but did not move away. And his human, as well as artificial, bodyguard remained inert, watching the goings-on intently. "I need help, Lantano. There's no place I can go to hide from him; he'll get me because he has access to those advanced weapons; god knows what's in those archives." He appealed, then, with a silent, wild glance at Nicholas, seeking even his assistance.
Nicholas said, "There's one place he might not find you." He had been pondering this for several minutes, since he had first managed to grasp the nature of Adams' situation.
"Where?" Adams said.
"Down in an ant tank."
Adams regarded him, his expression too lax, too confused by conflict, to be made out.
"My tank," Nicholas said, deliberately—because so many other persons were present—not naming his tank. "I can relocate the vertical tunnel. I intend to go back, with or without the artiforg I came for; you could come with me."
Foote said, "Ah. The artiforg. It's for you. The pancreas." He seated himself, unzipped his leather binder. "Someone in your tank? A valuable person, a dearly beloved old aunt? Artiforgs, as Mr. Lantano has undoubtedly already told you—"
"I'm going to keep trying," Nicholas said.
CHAPTER 25
As he unzipped his leather binder, Webster Foote managed to let a roll of papers bounce out and onto the floor; he bent forward to retrieve them, and, in that moment, saw his chance and made use of it; as with his left hand he snatched back the decoy, the rolled-up blank documents, with his right he placed within the cushions of the couch on which he sat—a deliberately selected spot—an aud-vid transmitting monitor; it would not merely perceive and store data; it would instantaneously transmit all it picked up to a Footeman at the nearest tracking substation.
To Foote, the harassed Yance-man Joseph Adams said, "You fed the clue data to the Moscow computer and it popped Brose's card. So in your mind Brose is innocent, because the clues are spurious, laid down by a Gestalt-macher; someone hostile to both Lindblom and Brose did it."
Eying him, wondering how he knew this, Foote said, "Hmm."
"This is true," Adams said hoarsely. "I know because I fed the Alpha-wave pattern to Megavac 6-V myself and got the same card. But David Lantano—" He jerked his head toward the dark young Yance-man. "He points out that Brose could have programmed the macher, knowing it'd be caught; and you did catch it."
"Well," Foote said warily, "we have an object. But we haven't yet got into it; the thing resists entry. We assume it's a cammed stage of a German-made wartime device; yes, that's so." He saw no reason to deny it at this point; however, since Joseph Adams and David Lantano knew this, it now of course would have to be told Brose. And as soon as possible, Foote realized. Brose must get it from me and not them. So I had better get out of here as soon as I can manage it, back into my flapple where I’ll have access to vid-transmission by satellite relay to Geneva. Because if Brose learns the news from them and not from me, my reputation will suffer permanent impairment; I can't afford this. He felt nettled, aggrieved.
Do you mean, he said to himself, that I fell for a cover—or, more accurately, a double cover? The crime was committed by that portable TV receiver—so-called, so-appearing—but Brose really dispatched it, set it up to delineate himself? And to think that I never, even with my extrasensory ability, happened onto that idea.
It's this Lantano, he realized; the idea is his. Inspired. The man is dangerously so, dangerously gifted.
In his ear a receiver-speaker, grafted subdermal so as to be invisible, piped, "We're picking up the aud-vid signals clearly, Mr. F. It's extremely well-placed. We'll get everything in that one room from now on."
Reflexively, still deep in thought, Foote unrolled his military maps, which showed ordinance dispositions of essential military stores; t
hese had been top secret . . . classified, the old argot had been. Made available to him originally by General Holt, via the Agency. For purposes of a former job he had performed for Brose; the actual maps had been returned; these were Xeroxed copies. He studied them now, perfunctorily, prepared to begin the tedious cover discussion with Lantano . . . and then, without warning, summarily, his extrasensory faculty bumped him jarringly, flooded his mind with intimation, and he scanned closely, keenly, the top map. It showed an area near the Atlantic Coast of North Carolina. Three U.S. Army weapons arsenals were indicated, subsurface stores which had long ago been excavated by Brose's leadies and everything of value removed. This was so indicated by check-makers on the map. But—
The distribution of the arsenals indicated that they had been set up to supply highly mobile armored tactical surface units, probably engaged—or it had been so anticipated—in handling Soviet leadies landed by the giant troop carrier USSR transoceanic subs of the 1990s. And a quadripatrite division of such arsenals had been common in those days: three of weapons, fuel and repair parts for the heavy U.S. rexeroid-shielded tanks capable of surviving a direct hit by a ground-to-ground A-head missile . . . these were the three that had been dug up. But no fourth subsurface depot was indicated, and yet it should have existed fifty miles or so in the rear; that would have contained the medical supplies—if any had been provided for the personnel of the highly mobile mechanized defensive units drawing on the three weapons arsenals closer to the coastline.
With a pencil he drew lines connecting the three indicated arsenals, then, with the edge of a book plucked from a nearby table, he measured off a line which ended at the hypothetical locus which would transform the visible triangle into a square.
In five hours, Foote realized, I can have a work detail of leadies digging at that spot; they can sink a shaft and in fifteen minutes determine if a fourth depot, that of medical, hospital emergency equipment, exists there. The chances are—he calculated. About forty percent favorable. But—digs had been essayed on far slimmer evidence in the past, and by his corporation.
Some paid off; some did not. But it would be of incalculable value if he were to locate a store of artiforgs. Even a few, three or four. even that meager handful would break Brose's monopoly.
"At this spot," he said to Lantano, who had come over and seated himself beside him, "I plan to dig. You can see why." He indicated the three depots already excavated, then the lines he had drawn. "My Psionic hunch," he said, "tells me, water witchwise, that we will strike an undisclosed U.S. Army medical store, here. And perhaps luck will be with us. Artificial pancreaswise."
Joseph Adams said, "I'll go." Obviously he had given up; he signaled to his retinue of leadies; they and the four Footemen assigned to guard him began to collect around him and together the group of them all shuffled toward the door, an ensemble of defeat.
"Wait," Lantano said.
At the door Adams waited, his unhappy face still contorted; the suffering and confusion, pain at his friend's death, uncertainty as to who was responsible, what he himself ought to do-all was mingled, blended.
Lantano said, "Would you kill Stanton Brose?"
Staring at him, Adams said, "I—" His stare became blind, horrified. There was silence, then.
"You can't escape him, Adams. Probably not even by descending into an ant tank; not even by that. Because Brose's pol-coms are there waiting. If you went down into that tank with Nick—with their pol-com there, acting for Brose, who probably knows the exact conditions up here—" Lantano broke off. It was not necessary to say it. "You'll have to decide for yourself, Adams," Lantano said, then. "It can be for any motive you care to assign yourself. Revenge for Lindblom's death, fear as regards your own life . . . for humanity itself. Take your choice. All three, if that appeals to you. But you do have the opportunity to see Brose. You could conceivably take him out. Although the chance, frankly, would be slim. However, it's a real chance. And look at your situation now; look at your fear. And it will get worse, Adams; I predict that and I think Mr. Foote here would predict the same."
"I—don't know," Adams muttered, at last.
"Morally," Lantano said, "it would be right. I am sure of that. Mr. Foote knows that. Nick here knows that—already. You know it, too, Adams. Don't you?" He waited; Adams did not answer. To Foote, Lantano said, "He knows it. He's one of the few Yance-men who does, who faces it. Especially now, after Lindblom's death."
"Kill him with what?" Adams said, then.
Lantano said, regarding Foote's military map intently, "I'll supply you with the weapon. Leave that part to me. I think we've arrived at the crux, here." He put his forefinger on the spot which Foote had indicated on the military map. "Go ahead and dig; I'll pay the costs." Once more he turned to Adams, who stood at the door entirely surrounded by his leadies and Footemen escort. "Brose has to be killed. It's only a matter of time. And by whom. And through what technical construct." To Foote he said, "What weapon would you recommend? Adams will encounter Brose at the Agency sometime later this week, in his own office. Adams' office. So he need not carry it on him; it can be in the office, cammed in place; he need only have the triggering mechanism on him or auto-arranged in advance."
Extraordinary, Foote thought. Is this what I came here for? It was supposedly a pretext, my visit here, to plant a monitoring device. By which I could learn more about David Lantano. But instead—I have been drawn into, or anyhow invited to enter, a conspiracy to kill the most powerful human being in the world. And the man with the greatest repertory of advanced weapons at his disposal.
The man, Foote realized, we all really terribly fear.
And this conversation, due to the aud-vid bug he had planted in the couch, was being monitored. And, by an incredible, maddening irony, by his own technicians. But his own corporation's experts, at the local tracking substation and then at the London office itself. Too late now, to shut it off; the data, the important message, had been sent out already. And, of course, somewhere in the corporation Webster Foote, Limited, Brose had his agents; eventually, although not perhaps right away, the news of this conversation in utter and complete bona fide detail, would arrive, through channels, at Geneva. And every man in this room, Foote realized, will be killed. Even if I say no; even if both Adams and I say no; that will not be enough. Because the old man, Stanton Brose, will not dare to take the chance; we will have to be dispatched. Just in case. To insure his absolute self-protection.
Aloud Foote said, "You have Brose' s Alpha-wave pattern. In the wall monitor at Lindblom's demesne. And you have access to it—" He spoke, now, to Adams.
"Tropism," Lantano said, and nodded.
"Since Lindblom's leadies recognize you as the deceased's closest friend—" Foote hesitated and then he said, numbly, "I therefore recommend yes; the Alpha-wave pattern as the tropism. A conventional homeostatic high-velocity cyanide dart. Set to release from some recess in your Agency office the moment its dispatching mechanism receives and records that idiosyncratic Alpha-wave pattern as present."
There was silence.
"Could it be set up tonight?" Lantano asked Foote.
"It takes only a few minutes to install the barn for such a dart," Foote said. "And to program the dispatching mechanism within the barn housing. And to load the barn with the dart itself."
Adams said. "Do—you have such hardware?" He spoke to Foote.
"No," Foote said. Which was the truth. Unfortunately. He could not come through.
"I have," Lantano said.
Foote said, "There are hundreds of those wartime cyanide homeostatic high velocity darts left over from the days when the Communist international assassins were in business, and literally thousands of the low velocity ones that could be corrected after release, such as that which killed Verne Lindblom. But they're old. They exist but they can't be relied on; too many years have—"
"I said," Lantano said, "that I have one. The complete assembly: dart, barn, housing, dispatching mechanism. And in mint con
dition."
"Then," Foote said, "you must also have access to time travel equipment. This hardware you speak of, it must come directly from fifteen to twenty years ago."
Presently Lantano nodded. "I do." He clenched his hands together, violently. "But I don't know how to set up the assembly. The wartime and prewar CP assassins who used those were specially trained. But I think with your general knowledge of the field—" He glanced at Foote. "You could. Will you?"
"Tonight?" Foote said.
"Brose," Lantano said, "will visit Adams' office possibly as early as tomorrow. If it's installed tonight, Brose could be dead within the next twelve to twenty-four hours. The alternative of course, needless to say, is death for each and every human being in this room. Because within the next forty-eight hours, news of this discussion will be in Brose's hands." He added, "Due to some monitoring device, Foote, which you yourself brought; I don't know what it is, where it is, when and how you installed it, but I know it's in the room. And functioning."
"True," Foote said, at last.
"So we have to continue," Adams spoke up. "Tonight, as he says. All right, I'll fly to Lindblom's demesne and get the Alpha-wave pattern back; I returned it to the type VI chief leady, there." He hesitated, suddenly realizing something. "The Gestalt-macher possessed that pattern. How did it get it? The person who programmed it had the pattern; only Brose would have the pattern. So I guess you are right, Lantano. It had to be Brose who fed the data to the machine."
"Did you think," Lantano said quietly, "that perhaps I dispatched that machine to kill your friend?"
Adams hesitated. "I don't know. Someone did; that's all I knew. Except that I got that card popped; it seemed to me—"
"I think you did," Foote said.
Glancing at him, Latano smiled. It was not the smile of a young man; it had in it ancient, wild craft. An elliptic untamed wisdom which could afford to be gentle, could be tolerant because it had seen so much.