“You would not be unduly surprised to learn that substances other than uranium occasionally reach Northport?”
“Not too surprised, no,” Olmstead replied dryly. “What would I do with it?”
“We need not go into that here or now. I offer you the position.”
“I accept it.”
“Very well. I will take you to Northport, and we will continue our talk en route.”
And in a spy-ray-proof, soundproof compartment of a Spaceways-owned stratoliner they did so.
“Just for my information, Mr. Isaacson, how many predecessors have I had on this particular job, and what happened to them? The Patrol get them?”
“Two. No; we have not been able to find any evidence that the Samms crowd has any suspicion of us. Both were too small for the job; neither could handle personnel. One got funny ideas, the other couldn’t stand the strain. If you don’t get funny ideas, and don’t crack up, you will make out in a big—and I mean really big—way.”
“If I do either I’ll be more than somewhat surprised.” Olmstead’s features set themselves into a mirthless, uncompromising, somehow bitter grin.
“So will I.” Isaacson agreed.
He knew what this man was, and just how case-hardened he was. He knew that he had fought Morgan himself to a scoreless tie after twisting Herkimer—and he was no soft touch—into a pretzel in nothing flat. At the thought of the secretary, so recently and so mysteriously vanished, the magnate’s mind left for a moment the matter in hand. What was at the bottom of that affair—the Lens or the woman? Or both? If he were in Morgan’s shoes … but he wasn’t. He had enough grief of his own, without worrying about any of Morgan’s stinkeroos. He studied Olmstead’s inscrutable, subtly sneering smile and knew that he had made a wise decision.
“I gather that I am going to be one of the main links in the primary chain of deliveries. What’s the technique, and how do I cover up?”
“Technique first. You go fishing. You are an expert at that, I believe?”
“You might say so. I won’t have to do any faking there.”
“Some weekend soon, and every weekend later on, we hope, you will indulge in your favorite sport at some lake or other. You will take the customary solid and liquid refreshments along in a lunch-box. When you have finished eating you will toss the lunch-box overboard.”
“That all?”
“That’s all.”
“The lunch-box, then, will be slightly special?”
“More or less, although it will look ordinary enough. Now as to the cover-up. How would ‘Director of Research’ sound?”
“I don’t know. Depends on what the researchers are doing. Before I became an engineer I was a pure scientist of sorts; but that was quite a while ago and I was never a specialist.”
“That is one reason why I think you will do. We have plenty of specialists—too many, I often think. They dash off in all directions, without rhyme or reason. What we want is a man with enough scientific training to know in general what is going on, but what he will need mostly is hard common sense, and enough ability—mental force, you might call it—to hold the specialists down to earth and make them pull together. If you can do it—and if I didn’t think you could I wouldn’t be talking to you—the whole force will know that you are earning your pay; just as we could not hide the fact that your two predecessors weren’t.”
“Put that way it sounds good. I wouldn’t wonder if I could handle it.”
The conversation went on, but the rest of it is of little importance here. The plane landed. Isaacson introduced the new Director of Research to Works Manager Rand, who in turn introduced him to a few of his scientists and to the svelte and spectacular redhead who was to be his private secretary.
It was clear from the first that the Research Department was not going to be an easy one to manage. The top men were defiant, the middle ranks were sullen, the smaller fry were apprehensive as well as sullen. The secretary flaunted chips on both shapely shoulders. Men and women alike expected the application of the old wheeze “a new broom sweeps clean” for the third time in scarcely twice that many months, and they were defying him to do his worst. Wherefore they were very much surprised when the new boss did nothing whatever for two solid weeks except read reports and get acquainted with his department.
“How d’ya like your new boss, May?” another secretary asked, during a break.
“Oh, not too bad … I guess.” May’s tone was full of reservations. “He’s quiet—sort of reserved—no passes or anything like that—it’d be funny if I finally got a boss that had something on the ball, wouldn’t it? But you know what, Molly?” The redhead giggled suddenly. “I had a camera-fiend first, you know, with a million credits’ worth of stereo-cams and such stuff, and then a golf-nut. I wonder what this Dr. Olmstead does with his spare cash?”
“You’ll find out, dearie, no doubt.” Molly’s tone gave the words a meaning slightly different from the semantic one of their arrangement.
“I intend to, Molly—I fully intend to.” May’s meaning, too, was not expressed exactly by the sequence of words used. “It must be tough, a boss’s life. Having to sit at a desk or be in conference six or seven hours a day—when he isn’t playing around somewhere—for a measly thousand credits or so a month. How do they get that way?”
“You said it, May. You really said it. But we’ll get ours, huh?”
Time went on. George Olmstead studied reports, and more reports. He read one, and reread it, frowning. He compared it minutely with another; then sent redheaded May to hunt up one which had been turned in a couple of weeks before. He took them home that evening, and in the morning he punched three buttons. Three stiffly polite young men obeyed his summons.
“Good morning, Doctor Olmstead.”
“Morning, boys. I’m not up on the fundamental theory of any one of these three reports, but if you combine
