The Multiple Man

Hallidays as they wanted. Each of them only nine months or so younger than the original.”

“It still don’t make sense.” Hank was shaking his head doggedly. “Why would th’ General clone his son? How could they keep th’ thing a secret? Cryin’ out loud—they’d have a dozen little James J. Hallidays crawlin’ all over th’ place!”

“No wonder his mother drank herself to death,” Vickie said. But there was no smile this time.

“The General’s hideout at Aspen is big enough to stash a battalion of James J. Hallidays,” I said.

“But the secrecy they’d need t’ carry it off!” Hank insisted. “Why, th’ General’d have to have a staff of people who looked up t’ him like he was God, fer cryin’ out loud.”

I grinned humorlessly. “Ever meet the General?”

“Nope.”

“Or some of his employees… like Robert H.H. Wyatt?”

“Oh.” Hank had met Wyatt, it was apparent. “Maybe I see what yew mean.”

“Okay then… putting it all together…”

Vickie took over. “The General had his son cloned, and then trained him for a life in politics. He was programmed to be President from the instant he was born.”

“Before that,” I said.

“But why clone him?” Hank asked again. “And why’re th’ clones droppin’ dead? Who’s killin’ them? And why?”

“That’s what we’ve got to find out,” I said.

“How?”

“There’s one guy who knows the whole story, and he might be pressured into telling us: Dr. Pena.”

Vickie said, “McMurtrie and Dr. Klienerman talked with Pena just before they… they crashed.”

“I know.” That’s why my hands were shaking, and why I belatedly looked up at the ventilator grill in the ceiling and started to wonder who else had heard our think-tank session.

THIRTEEN

General Halliday beat us to the punch.

I got into my office early the next morning and dove into the pile of accumulated paperwork that Greta had left on my desk—until 9:00 Central Time. Then I put in a call to Dr. Pena.

And got Peter Thornton. On the phone’s picture screen, he looked even fussier and more officious than he had in person.

“Dr. Pena’s not available,” he said. “He’s been under enough strain recently.”

“This is important,” I said. “I want to fly out there this afternoon and—”

“Absolutely not! Out of the question. Besides, he won’t even be here by this afternoon. He’s going away for a complete rest.”

“Away? Where?”

Thornton’s normally frowning face wrinkled even further into a scowl. “Oh, come now, Mr. Albano. Why can’t you leave the old man alone? He’s very frail, and quite upset about all this… this notoriety.”

I leaned closer to the phone screen. “Listen. Would you rather have him talk to me or to the Federal goddamned Bureau of Investigation?”

“Really! I—”

“Where’s he going?” I demanded. “To the General’s place in Aspen?”

Thornton looked shocked. “How did you know?”

“I’ve got spies, too.”

“But…”

“I know,” I said. “Dr. Pena needs a complete rest. You just make sure he doesn’t get the kind of rest that Klienerman and McMurtrie got.”

“What? What are you saying?”

“Nothing. Just take good care of that old man.” I clicked off before he could say anything else.

And called Vickie into my office. In the few minutes it took to get her down the hall I signed half a dozen memos and canceled three meetings that I was supposed to chair.

Vickie came in quietly, without any announcement from Greta, and took the seat in front of my desk. She was wearing a forest-green one-piece jumpsuit, with a yellow scarf tied loosely at her throat.

“Looks like you’re ready to go skydiving,” I said as I initialed a couple more memos.

She grinned at me. “It’s a comfortable outfit. I don’t have any outside appointments today, so I can wear what feels best.”

“Looks good,” I said.

She made a thank-you bob of her head.

“I’m going to Aspen,” I said. “The General’s got Dr. Pena there.”

Vickie’s face went from pleased to surprised to scared to thoughtful, all in a couple of eyeblinks. She was terrible at keeping secrets. “What good will that do?” she asked in a level, practicality-above-all tone. “The General probably won’t even let you into his house, and even if he does, he certainly won’t let you interrogate Dr. Pena.”

“Can you think of anything better we can do?”

She pursed her lips for a moment. “Yes. Call a press conference and tell the newshawks what you know.”

“Blow the lid off.”

“Exactly.” Her face was dead serious now.

“I can’t do that, Vickie… not just yet, anyway. I promised The Man that I’d keep things buttoned up—”

“He can’t hold you to such a promise!”

“Maybe not. But I can. I gave The Man my word, kid. I can’t go back on that, not yet.”

“When, for God’s sake? After you’re smashed all across some Colorado mountainside?”

“Don’t get emotional.”

“Don’t get chauvinistic,” she snapped back. “I’m a damned sight more practical than you, Meric. I don’t let Boy Scout oaths straitjacket my thinking. You swore secrecy to the President! Is that worth your life? Or his?”

I tried to stay calm. Vickie seemed more angry than anything else. And she had some accurate thinking on her side.

“Listen… Vickie… when we go to the press, I want to be able to give them the whole story. Who, what, where, when, how. Right now, all we know is that the President was cloned in infancy, and at least two of the clones are dead of unknown causes.”

“And McMurtrie and Klienernian were murdered.”

“Maybe.”

“They’re certainly dead.”

“Okay.” I found myself drumming my fingertips on the desk top. I pulled back my hands and drummed on my thighs instead. Quieter, at least.

“If we release what we know to the press,” I went on, “it will ruin the President. Just blow him right out of office. He’ll be totally unable to do his job.”

“Is that bad?”

“Do we know for sure that it’s not?” I demanded, my voice rising. Has he done anything to deserve being tossed out like a crook or an incompetent? Has he tried to squash us? He could, you know, in about twelve microseconds.”

“Well…”

“He’s been doing a damned fine job, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, but…”