cash. They stole several unpublished manuscripts of mine. Thank God I had them on storage disks for the word processor. I can retrieve them at six hundred words a minute whenever I choose. The problem is—and I know I can trust you to keep this confidential—much of the material had a certain national security interest, so I’m a little concerned about seeing that it’s recovered.”
“I see,” said Porterfield. “I hadn’t realized you were much involved with the Defense Department.”
Donahue shrugged and smiled but said nothing. Porterfield had checked the history of the payments to Donahue, and all of them had been made through the National Research Foundation. Porterfield said, “I see. Perhaps I’m wasting your time. Mr. Morrison had mentioned to me that you were doing some research that was of interest to the Seyell Foundation and that the funding for it was becoming difficult. If—”
Donahue held up his hand. “Don’t misunderstand me. At the moment I’m preparing some proposals with the Seyell Foundation in mind.”
Porterfield stood up and smiled. “Very good. Just send them along when they’re ready and I promise they’ll get plenty of attention. They’ll be high on our agenda for next year, which would mean that the actual funding could come through the year after that. It’s been a pleasure.” He turned to go.
“Two years?”
Porterfield stopped. “Well, not two years, Professor Donahue. More like a year and a half.”
“But even the government is faster than that.”
“The deadline for this year’s screening committee is already past, and while I could return to Washington tomorrow with something to slip into the mass of material they have to deal with, after that it would be impossible. Meddling with deadlines would jeopardize our tax-exempt status.”
“I can show you some things that would change your mind,” said Donahue. “Things I was working on for the National Research Foundation.” His desperation seemed to be swallowed for a moment by some other emotion that wasn’t immediately identifiable. “It’s going to knock them on their asses.” Then he added, “If there’s anyone there qualified to read it.”
Of course the little bastard would be this way—bitter, waiting for the chance to revel in some personal triumph over people who certainly never thought about him, probably never even heard of him; but that too would be part of it. These people spent their lives telling themselves they had international reputations because they were quoted in a journal with two hundred subscribers. He’d forgotten about that part of it. “Of course, for a distinguished scientist like you we might be able to deal with a body of work, at least until a specific contract could be constructed.”
Donahue beamed. “When does your plane leave?”
“Late this evening—ten forty-five.”
“I can have the manuscripts out of the machine by six.” He reached in his desk drawer and began fumbling with a row of word processor disks in gray envelopes.
Porterfield moved to the door. “Eight will be fine.”
He passed along the corridor to the end of the suite of offices. The electricians seemed to have gone, although there still was a toolbox on the floor near the door. When he turned the corner, Goldschmidt’s man was waiting for him. Porterfield said quietly, “It’s all on word processor disks in his office. We’ll need his access code.”
“Do you need to talk to him some more?”
Porterfield glanced at Goldschmidt’s man as he walked. He was definitely one of the ones Goldschmidt had trained to be what he called professional. He always found them in their early twenties, intelligent and athletic like this one, and somehow induced in them that strange, attentive look. This one had to be thirty or more, which made him something of a veteran. Porterfield thought about Donahue for a moment, then shrugged. “No. He’s nothing.”
CHINESE GORDON LIFTED the telephone receiver.
“Mr. Gordon.”
“Hi there, Jorge. You certainly took a long time making up your mind.”
“I had arrangements to make, people to talk to. You know how it is, I’m sure. I’d like to make you an offer.”
“Okay.”
“Seven-fifty.”
“Fine.”
“What?”
“I said yes, I’ll take it. I’ve got other things to do, and I don’t want to be a pig about it. I’ll call you at ten. But Jorge?”
“Yes?”
“Don’t be too ambitious. It hasn’t been anywhere you could find it for sometime, so all you would do before ten is get somebody killed. Just be ready with the cash. You can bring as many people as you can fit in one car, all heavily armed if that seems good to you, but remember it’s going to be a public place.”
“Of course. It would be.”
Chinese Gordon hung up and dialed Kepler’s number. “Time to go.”
Chinese Gordon walked across the shop to the door. Doctor Henry Metzger was curled in a furry ball on the metal welding table, but stretched himself and lashed his tail from side to side. “See you later, baboon ass,” said Chinese Gordon. Beneath the table Doctor Henry Metzger’s dog stirred. The large, alert, pitiless eyes opened, and the upper lip curled to bare the jagged array of teeth. “You too, you mental case.” The dog’s horrible maw widened into a yawn, and then the broad, untroubled face settled into sleep.
Chinese Gordon made his way down the alley to the back door of the grocery store. There was no sign that anyone was watching. He supposed a man like Grijalvas could probably connect an unlisted telephone number with an address easily enough, but this was about the time he had walked to the grocery store every day since the arrival of Doctor Henry Metzger’s dog. He walked through the shop to the counter, bought a pack of cigarettes, and went out the front door to the street.
At the curb he got into Margaret’s car and drove off. Since it was a beautiful, sunny Sunday morning, he decided that he favored “Bringing in the Sheaves.” As he coaxed the bright yellow Volkswagen to sixty and eased into the center lane, his voice reached maximum volume, but he had already sung the only verse he knew. Undaunted, he amused himself by inventing obscene lyrics until he reached the Hawthorne Boulevard exit ramp.
Chinese Gordon drove on in silence until he reached the beach, then parked and waited for a half hour, watching to be sure no one had followed. Then he drove onto the vast parking lot set in the sandy hillside above the ocean and got out of the car, leaving the keys under the seat.
By the time he reached the entrance gate there were three buses in the loop spewing their hordes of passengers onto the walkways. In the distance he could see families beginning the long trek across the parking lot, the tall pairs of parents moving with straight, unswerving purpose toward the entrance, while smaller shapes scampered and cavorted about them in a reckless, random expenditure of energy. Chinese Gordon sighed. Judging from the size, they’d all be named Joshua or Laura and their mothers would be Kathys or Karens.
Inside the park he made the first telephone call. “Be at the phone booth at the Griffith Park Observatory at eleven.”
“Shit,
“I can’t help it. I need the insurance.”
“I understand.”
By eleven he’d seen the others. Immelmann was at the head of a line of people and was buying a long string of tickets to the Skyride, a shaft that rose over two hundred feet in the air and served as the track for a glass elevator. He looked excited and happy as he folded the string of tickets, hung his binoculars over his neck, picked up his knapsack, and wandered off. Chinese Gordon tried to convince himself that Immelmann’s expression was different from that of the ten-year-old boy who came to the window next, but he was distracted when he heard Margaret’s voice beside him. “I suppose you wrecked my car.”
“No. Everything’s fine. See you at noon.”
The telephone rang only once at the Griffith Park Observatory. Chinese Gordon said, “The telephone booth outside the Museum of Science and Industry in Exposition Park in half an hour,” and hung up.
