The spaceyard manager was named Rocca, and he was happily asleep when we arrived. But not for long. The parade of uniforms and guns in the middle of the night had him frightened into a state where he could hardly walk. I imagine he was as full of petty larceny as Ferraro. No innocent man could have looked so terror-stricken. Taking advantage of the situation, I latched my motorized lie detector onto him and began snapping the questions.
Even before I had all the answers I began to get the drift of things. They were a little frightening, too. The manager of the spaceyard that was building the ship had no idea of its true nature.
Anyone with less self-esteem than myself—or who had led a more honest early life—might have doubted his own reasoning at that moment. I didn’t. The ship on the ways still resembled a warship to six places. And knowing human nature the way I do, that was too much of a coincidence to expect. Occam’s razor always points the way. If there are two choices to take, take the simpler. In this case I chose the natural acquisitive instinct of man as opposed to blind chance and accident. Nevertheless I put the theory to the test.
Looking over the original blueprints again, the big superstructure hit my eye. In order to turn the ship into a warship that would have to be one of the first things to go.
“Rocca!” I barked, in what I hoped was authentic old space-dog manner. “Look at these plans, at this space-going front porch here. Is it still being built onto the ship?”
He shook his head at once and said, “No, the plans were changed. We had to fit in some kind of new meteor-repelling gear for operating in the planetary debris belt.”
I flipped through my case and drew out a plan. “Does your new gear look anything like this?” I asked, throwing it across the table to him.
He rubbed his jaw while he looked at it. “Well,” he said hesitatingly, “I don’t want to say for certain. After all, these details aren’t in my department, I’m just responsible for final assembly, not unit work. But this surely looks like the thing they installed. Big thing. Lots of power leads—”
It was a battleship all right, no doubt of that now. I was mentally reaching around to pat myself on the back when the meaning of his words sank in.
“Installed!” I shouted. “Did you say installed?”
Rocca collapsed away from my roar and gnawed his nails. “Yes—” he said, “not too long ago. I remember there was some trouble. …”
“And what else?” I interrupted him. Cold moisture was beginning to collect along my spine now. “The drives, controls—are they in, too?”
“Why, yes,” he said. “How did you know? The normal scheduling was changed around, causing a great deal of unnecessary trouble.”
The cold sweat was now a running river of fear. I was beginning to have the feeling that I had been missing the boat all along the line. The original estimated date of completion was nearly a year away. But there was no real reason why that couldn’t be changed, too.
“Cars! Guns!” I bellowed. “To the spaceyard. If that ship is anywhere near completion, we are in big, big trouble!”
All the bored guards had a great time with the sirens, lights, accelerators on the floor and that sort of thing. We blasted a screaming hole through the night right to the spaceyard and through the gate.
It didn’t make any difference, we were still too late. A uniformed watchman frantically waved to us and the whole convoy jerked to a stop.
The ship was gone.
Rocca couldn’t believe it, neither could the president. They wandered up and down the empty ways where it had been built. I just crunched down in the back of the car, chewing my cigar to pieces and cursing myself for being a fool.
I had missed the obvious fact, being carried away by the thought of a planetary government building a warship. The government was involved for sure—but only as a pawn. No little planet-bound political mind could have dreamed up as big a scheme as this. I smelled a rat—a stainless steel one. Someone who operated the way I had done before my conversion.
Now that the rodent was well out of the bag I knew just where to look, and had a pretty good idea of what I would find. Rocca, the spaceyard manager, had staggered back and was pulling at his hair, cursing and crying at the same time. President Ferraro had his gun out and was staring at it grimly. It was hard to tell if he was thinking of murder or suicide. I didn’t care which. All he had to worry about was the next election, when the voters and the political competition would carve him up for losing the ship. My troubles were a little bigger.
I had to find the battleship before it blasted its way across the galaxy.
“Rocca!” I shouted. “Get into the car. I want to see your records—all of your records—and I want to see them right now.”
He climbed wearily in and had directed the driver before he fully realized what was happening. Blinking at the sickly light of dawn brought him slowly back to reality.
“But admiral … the hour! Everyone will be asleep. …”
I just growled, but it was enough. Rocca caught the idea from my expression and grabbed the car phone. The office doors were open when we got there.
Normally I curse the paper tangles of bureaucracy, but this was one time when I blessed them all. These people had it down to a fine science. Not a rivet fell, but that its fall was noted—in quintuplicate. And later followed up with
