After a pause Jim Briskin said huskily, 'Well, now what, Doctor ?'
'Nothing, Briskin. Nothing. If I had had more time I would have checked the gun out, but I had to hurry to get here before you left. That was quite a heroic speech you made; it'll certainly give most people the impression that you're seeking to alleviate man's problems ... although of course you and I know better. By the way - you do realize you won't be able to awaken all the bibs; you can't fulfill that promise because some are dead. I'm responsible for that. Roughly four hundred of them.'
Jim Briskin stared at him.
'That's right,' Sands said. 'I've had access to Department of Special Public Welfare warehouses.
Do you know what that means ? Every organ I've taken has created a dead human - when the time comes for them to be revived, whenever that may be. But I suppose the trump has to be played sooner or later. doesn't it ?'
'You'd do that ?' Jim Briskin said.
'I did that,' Sands corrected. 'But remember this: I killed only potentially. Whereas, in exchange, I
saved someone right now, someone conscious and alive in the present someone completely dependent on my skill.'
Two Chicago policemen shoved their way up to him; Dr Sands jerked irritably away but they continued to hold onto him, pinning him between them.
Pale, Phil Danville said, 'That - was almost it, Jim. Wasn't it ?' He deliberately stepped between
Jim Briskin and Dr Sands, shielding Briskin. 'History revisited.'
'Yes,' Jim managed to say. He nodded, his mouth dry. Basically he felt resigned. If Lurton Sands did not manage to carry it off then, certainly someone else would, given time. It was just too easy. Weapons technology had improved too much in the last hundred years; everyone knew that, and now the assassin did not even have to be in his vicinity. Like an act of evil magic it could be done from a distance. And the instruments were cheap and available to virtually anyone
- even, as history had shown, some ignorant, worthless smallfry, without friends, funds, or even a fanatical purpose, an overriding political cause.
This incident with Lurton Sands was a vile harbinger.
'Well,' Phil Danville said, and sighed, 'I guess we have to go on. What do you want to drink ?'
'A Black Russian,’ Jim decided, after a pause. 'Vodka and ...'
'I know,' Phil interrupted. His face still ragged with fear and gloom, he made his way unsteadily over to the bar to order.
To Dotty, Jim said, 'Even if they get me, I've done my job. I keep telling myself that over and over again, anyhow. I broke the news about TD's break-through and that's enough.'
'Do you actually mean that ?' she demanded. 'You're that fatalistic about it, about your chances ?'
She stared un-wincingly up into his face.
'Yes,' he said, finally. And well he might be.
I have a feeling, he thought to himself, that this is not the time a Negro is going to make it to the presidency.
His contact within CLEAN came via an individual named Dave DeWinter. DeWinter had joined the movement at its inception and had reported to Tito Cravelli throughout. Now, hurriedly,
DeWinter told his employer the most recent - and urgent - news.
'They'll try it late tonight. The man actually doing it is not a member. His name is Herb
Lackmore or Luckmore. and with the equipment they're providing him he doesn't need to be an accurate shot.' DeWinter added, 'The equipment, what they call a boulder, was paid for by
George Walt, those two mutants who own the Golden Door.'
Tito Cravelli said, 'I see.' There goes my post as Attorney General, he said to himself. 'Where can
I find this Lackmore right now ?'
'In his con apt in Oakland, California. Probably eating dinner; it's about six, there.'
From the locked closet of his office, Tito Cravelli got a collapsible high-powered scope-sight laser rifle, he folded it up and stuffed it into his pocket, out of sight. Such a rifle was strictly illegal, but that hardly mattered right now; what Cravelli intended to do was against the law with any kind of weapon.
But it was already too late to get Lackmore or Luckmore or whatever his name was. By the time he reached the West Coast Lackmore would certainly be gone, on his way east to intercept Jim
Briskin; their flights would cross, his and Lackmore's. Better to locate Briskin and stick close to him, get Lackmore when he showed up. But Herb Lackmore would not have to show up, in the strict sense, not with the variety of weapon which the mutant brothers had provided him. He could be as far away as ten miles - and still reach Briskin.
George Walt will have to call him off, Cravelli decided. It's the only sure way - and even that is merely relatively sure.
I'll have to go to the satellite, he said to himself. Now, if I expect to accomplish anything at all.
The mutants George Walt would not be expecting him; they had no knowledge of his ties with
Jim Briskin - or so he hoped. And also, he had three individuals working for him on the satellite, three of the girls. That gave him three separate places to stay - or hide - while he was up there.
Afterwards, after he took care of George Walt, it might well mean the difference in saving his life.
That, of course, would be if George Walt wouldn't do business with him, if they chose to fight it out. In a fight, they would lose; Tito Cravelli was a crack shot. And in addition the initiative would be with him.
Where was the Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite right now ? Getting the evening homeopape, he turned to the entertainment page. If it was, say, over India, he had no chance; he would not be able to reach the brothers in time.
The Golden Door Moments of Bliss satellite, according to the time-schedule shown in the paper, was right now over Utah. By jet'ab he could reach it within three quarters of an hour.
That was soon enough.
'Thanks a lot,' he said to Dave De Winter, who stood awkwardly in the middle of the office, wearing his splendid green and silver CLEAN uniform. 'You trot on back to Engel I'll keep in touch with you.' He left the office on a dead run, then, racing down the stairs to the ground floor.
Presently, he was on his way to the satellite.
When the jet'ab had landed at the field, Cravelli hurried down the ramp, purchased a ticket from the nude, golden-haired attendant, and then rushed through gate five, searching for Francy's door.
705, it was - or so he recalled, but under so much tension he felt rattled. With five thousand doors spread out in corridor after corridor - and all around him, on every side, the animated pics of the girls twisted and chirped, trying to snare his attention and entice him to the joys inside.
I'll have to consult the satellite's directory, he decided. That would waste precious time, but what alternative did he have ? Feverishly, he loped down the corridor until he arrived at the immensely extensive, cross-indexed, illuminated directory board, with all its names winking on and off as rooms emptied and refilled, as customers hurried in and out.
It was 507, and it was empty of customers.
When he opened the door Francy said, 'Hello!' and sat up, then, blinking in surprise to see him.
'Mr. Cravelli,' she said uncertainly. 'Is everything all right ?' She slid from the bed, wearing a pale smock of some cheap thin material, and came hesitantly up to him, her body bare and smooth. 'What can I do for you ? Are you here for...'
'Not for pleasure,' Tito Cravelli informed her. 'Button up your damn smock and listen to me. Is there any way you can get George Walt up here ?'
Fancy pondered. "They never visit a crib, normally. I...'
'Suppose there was trouble. A customer refusing to pay.'
'No. A bouncer would show up then. But George Walt would come here if they thought the FBI