Chuck and the old man cowered instinctively back into the hollow of the I-beam, peering into the light and seeing nothing but dazzle.
'God, look at them!' a voice jeered from the other side of the light. 'Like turning over a wet rock.'
'What the hell's going on?' Chuck asked hoarsely. 'Since when did you clowns begin to pull vags?'
T.G. said: 'They aren't the clowns, Chuck. They want you—I can't see why.'
The voice said: 'Yeah? And just who are you, grampa?'
T.G. stood up straight, his eyes watering in the glare. 'The Great Hazleton,' he said, with some of the old ring in his voice. 'At your service. Don't tell me who you are, sir. The Great Hazleton knows. I see a man of authority, a man who works in a large white building—'
'Knock it off, T.G.,' Chuck said.
'You're Charles Barker,' the voice said. 'Come along quietly.'
Chuck took a long pull at the bottle and passed it to T.G. 'Take it easy,'
he said. 'I'll be back sometime.'
'No,' T.G. quavered. 'I see danger. I see terrible danger.'
The man behind the dazzling light took his arm and yanked him out of the shelter of the I-beam.
'Cut out the mauling,' Chuck said flatly.
'Shut up, Barker,' the man said with disgust. 'You have no beefs coming.'
So he knew where the man had come from and could guess where the man was taking him.
AT 1:58 A.M. of the third millennium Chuck was slouching in a waiting room on the 89th floor of the New Federal Building. The man who had pulled him out of Riveredge was sitting there too, silent and aloof.
Chuck had been there before. He cringed at the thought. He had been there before, and not to sit and wait. Special Agent Barker of Federal Security and Intelligence had been ushered right in, with the sweetest smile a receptionist could give him….
A door opened and a spare, well-remembered figure stood there.
'Come in, Barker,' the Chief said.
He stood up and went in, his eyes on the gray carpeting. The office hadn't changed in three years; neither had the Chief. But now Chuck waited until he was asked before sitting down.
'We had some trouble finding you,' the Chief said absently. 'Not much, but some. First we ran some ads addressed to you in the open Service code. Don't you read the papers any more?'
'No,' Chuck said.
'You look pretty well shot. Do you think you can still work?'
The ex-agent looked at him piteously.
'Answer me.'
'Don't play with me,' Chuck said, his eyes on the carpet. 'You never reinstate.'
'Barker,' the Chief said, 'I happen to have an especially filthy assignment to deal out. In my time, I've sent men into an alley at midnight after a mad-dog killer with a full clip. This one is so much worse and the chances of getting a sliver of useable information in return for an agent's life are so slim that I couldn't bring myself to ask for volunteers from the roster. Do you think you can still work?'
'Why me?' the ex-agent demanded sullenly.
'That's a good question. There are others. I thought of you because of the defense you put up at your departmental trial. Officially, you turned and ran, leaving Jocko McAllester to be cut down by gun-runners. Your story is that somehow you knew it was an ambush and when that dawned on you, you ran to cover the flank. The board don't buy it and neither do —not all the way. You let a hunch override standard doctrine and you were wrong and it looked like cowardice under fire. We can't have that; you had to go. But you've had other hunches that worked out better. The Bruni case. Locating the photostats we needed for the Wayne County civil rights indictment. Digging up that louse Sherrard's wife in Birmingham. Unless it's been a string of lucky flukes you have a certain talent I need right now. If you have that talent, you may come out alive. And cleared.'
Barker leaned forward and said savagely: 'That's good enough for me.
Fill me in.'
CHAPTER II
THE WOMAN was tall, quietly dressed and a young forty-odd. Her eyes were serene and guileless as she said: 'You must be curious as to how I know about your case. It's quite simple—and unethical. We have a tipster in the clinic you visited. May I sit down?'
Dr. Oliver started and waved her to the dun-colored chair. A reaction was setting in. It was a racket—a cold- blooded racket preying on weak-minded victims silly with terror. 'What's your proposition?' he asked, impatient to get it over, with. 'How much do I pay?'
'Nothing,' the woman said calmly. 'We usually pay poorer patients a little something to make up for the time they lose from work, but I presume you have a nest-egg. All this will cost you is a pledge of secrecy—and a little time.'
'Very well,' said Oliver stiffly. He had been hooked often enough by salesmen on no-money-down, free-trial- for-thirty-days, demonstration-for-consumer-reaction-only deals. He was on his guard.
'I find it's best to begin at the beginning,' the woman said. 'I'm an investment counselor. For the past five years I've also been a field representative for something called the Moorhead Foundation. The Moorhead Foundation was organized in 1915 by Oscar Moorhead, the patent-medicine millionaire. He died very deeply embittered by the attacks of the muck-rakers; they called him a baby-poisoner and a number of other things. He always claimed that his preparations did just as much good as a visit to an average doctor of the period.
Considering the state of medical education and licensing, maybe he was right.
'His will provided for a secret search for the cure of cancer. He must have got a lot of consolation daydreaming about it. One day the Foundation would announce to a startled world that it had cracked the problem and that old Oscar Moorhead was a servant of humanity and not a baby-poisoner after all.
'Maybe secrecy is good for research. I'm told that we know a number of things about neoplasms that the pathologists haven't hit on yet, including how to cure most types by radiation. My job, besides clipping coupons and reinvesting funds for the Foundation, is to find and send on certain specified types of cancer patients. The latest is what they call a Rotino 707-G. You. The technical people will cure you without surgery in return for a buttoned lip and the chance to study you for about a week. Is it a deal?'
Hope and anguish struggled in Dr. Oliver. Could anybody invent such a story? Was he saved from the horror of the knife?
'Of course,' he said, his guts contracting, 'I'll be expected to pay a share of the expenses, won't I? In common fairness?'
The woman smiled. 'You think it's a racket, don't you? Well, it isn't. You don't pay a cent. Come with your pockets empty and leave your check book at home if you like. The Foundation gives you free room and board. I personally don't know the ins and outs of the Foundation, but I have professional standing of my own and I assure you I'm not acting as a transmission belt to a criminal gang. I've seen the patients, Dr. Oliver.
I send them on sick and I see them a week or so later well. It's like a miracle.'
Dr. Oliver went distractedly to his telephone stand, picked up the red book and leafed through it.
'Roosevelt 4-19803,' the woman said with amusement in her voice.
Doggedly he continued to turn the 'W' pages. He found her. 'Mgrt WINSTON invstmnt cnslr R04-19803.' He punched the number.
'Winston investments,' came the answer.
'Is Miss Winston there?' asked.
'No, sir. She should be back at three if you wish to call again. May I take a message?'
'No message. But—would you describe Miss Winston for me?'
The voice giggled. 'Why not? She's about five-eight, weighs about 135, brown hair and eyes and when last seen was wearing a tailored navy culotte suit with white cuffs and collar. What're you up to, mister?'
'Not a thing,' he said. 'Thanks.' He hung up.
