“Project Merlin could have been anything,” Conn started to say. No. Project Merlin was something they made computer parts for.
“Dolf Kellton’s research crew, at the Library here, came across some references to Project Merlin, too. For instance, there was a routine division court-martial, a couple of second lieutenants, on a very trivial charge. Force Command ordered the court-martial stopped, and the two officers simply dropped out of the Third Force records, it was stated that they were engaged in work connected with Project Merlin. That’s an example; there were half a dozen things like that.”
“Tell him what Kurt Fawzi and his crew found,” Wade Lucas said.
“Yes. They have a fifty-foot shaft down from the top of the mesa almost to the top of the underground headquarters. They found something on top of the headquarters; a disc-shaped mass, fifty feet thick and a hundred across, armored in collapsium. It’s directly over what used to be Foxx Travis’s office.”
“That’s not a tenth big enough for anything that could even resemble Merlin.”
“Well, it’s something. I was out there day before yesterday. They’re down to the collapsium on top of this thing; I rode down the shaft in a jeep and looked at it. Look, Conn, we don’t know what this Project Merlin was; all this lore about Merlin that’s grown up since the War is pure supposition.”
“But Foxx Travis told me, categorically, that there was no Merlin Project,” Conn said. “The War’s been over forty years; it’s not a military secret any longer. Why would he lie to me?”
“Why did you lie to Kurt Fawzi and the others and tell them there was a Merlin? You lied because telling the truth would hurt them. Maybe Travis had the same reason for lying to you. Maybe Merlin’s too dangerous for anybody to be allowed to find.”
“Great Ghu, are you beginning to think Merlin is the Devil, or Frankenstein’s Monster?”
“It might be something just as bad. Maybe worse. I don’t think a man like Foxx Travis would lie if he didn’t have some overriding moral obligation to.”
“And we know who’s been making most of the trouble for us, too,” Lucas added.
“Yes,” Rodney Maxwell said, “we do. And sometime I’m going to invite Klem Zareff to kick my pants-seat. Sam Murchison, the Terran Federation Minister-General.”
“How’d you get that?”
“Barton-Massarra got some of it; they have an operative planted in Murchison’s office. And some of our banking friends got the rest. This Human Supremacy League is being financed by somebody. Every so often, their treasurer makes a big deposit at one of the banks here, all Federation currency, big denomination notes. When I asked them to, they started keeping a record of the serial numbers and checking withdrawals. The money was paid out, at the First Planetary Bank, to Mr. Samuel S. Murchison, in person. The Armegeddonists are getting money, too, but they’re too foxy to put theirs through the banks. I believe they’re the ones who mind-probed Lucy Nocero. Barton-Massarra believe, but they can’t prove, that Human Supremacy launched that robo-bomb at us, that time at the spaceport.”
“Have you done anything with those audiovisuals of Leibert?”
“Gave them to Barton-Massarra. They haven’t gotten anything, yet.”
“So we have to admit that Klem wasn’t crazy after all. What do you want me to do?”
“Go out to Force Command and take charge. We have to assume that there may be a Merlin, we have to assume that it may be dangerous, and we have to assume that Kurt Fawzi and his covey of Merlinolators are just before digging it up. Your job is to see that whatever it is doesn’t get loose.”
The trouble was, if he started giving orders around Force Command he’d stop being a brilliant young man and become a half-baked kid, and one word from him and the older and wiser heads would do just what they pleased. He wondered if the pro-Leibert and anti-Leibert factions were still squabbling; maybe if he went out of his way to antagonize one side, he’d make allies of the other. He took the precaution of screening in, first; Kurt Fawzi, with whom he talked, was almost incoherent with excitement. At least, he was reasonably sure that none of Klem Zareff’s trigger-happy mercenaries would shoot him down coming in.
The well, fifty feet in diameter, went straight down from the top of the mesa; as the headquarters had been buried under loose rubble, they’d had to vitrify the sides going down. He let down into the hole in a jeep, and stood on the collapsium roof of whatever it was they had found. It wasn’t the top of the headquarters itself; the microray scannings showed that. It was a drum-shaped superstructure, a sort of underground penthouse. And there they were stopped. You didn’t cut collapsium with a cold chisel, or even an atomic torch. He began to see how he was going to be able to take charge here.
“You haven’t found any passage leading into it?” he asked, when they were gathered in Fawzi’s—formerly Foxx Travis’s—office.
“Nifflheim, no! If we had, we’d be inside now.” Tom Brangwyn swore. “And we’ve been all over the ceiling in here, and we can’t find anything but vitrified rock and then the collapsium shielding.”
“Sure. There are collapsium-cutters, at Port Carpenter, on Koshchei. They do it with cosmic rays.”
“But collapsium will stop cosmic rays,” Zareff objected.
“Stop them from penetrating, yes. A collapsium-cutter doesn’t penetrate; it abrades. Throws out a rotary beam and works like a grinding-wheel, or a buzz-saw.”
“Well, could you get one down that hole?” Judge Ledue asked.
He laughed. “No. The thing is rather too large. In the first place, there’s a
