He attempted to recapitulate and it came hard. It was all too unbelievable.
There had been a cover-up. There must have been. The greatest cover-up of all history. The biggest military White wash of all time. Bigger than the reports Cortes and his men had made of the conquest of Mexico.
It came to him how it could have been done. Most of those involved in the fight had no complete picture of what was happening. Four Earth fleets were in the hysterical mess. There was no central command, largely they couldn’t even understand each other’s languages. They simply lit in, each spacecraft, each man, for himself. Chaos!
And then when it was all over, they returned triumphantly to Earth, now united, now no longer four space fleets, but one. Then the highest ranking officers had compiled the mass of video-tapes that had been taken, combined them. And then they must have known. Then they must have realized. And, like the military down through the ages, they covered-up. They and the industrial-military complex behind them.
Those at the top could not afford to admit they had attacked, without provocation, a peaceful armada from outer space. They couldn’t afford to lose their high positions, their prestige, their commands.
Those who had raised voices of dissent, assuming there were any, must have been suppressed. The military-industrial apparatus must have swung into high gear. Why, otherwise, were these video-tapes supposedly of high security nature? Security against whom? The Kradens? Obviously, the Kradens couldn’t possibly have access to them. The security applied only to Earthlings, members of the human race. They were the ones from whom the information was being withheld.
And why?
He reactivated the library booster screen, dialed, and said, “I wish to know what corporations are most active in trying to breakthrough in the field of nuclear fusion.”
It was the same sharp looking young man that he had confronted hours earlier.
He said, “That information is restricted, Colonel.”
“I know, I know,” Don said wearily. “However…”
“Yes, Colonel Mathers.”
It took some digging around, but it finally emerged that Lawrence Demming and Maximilian Rostoff dominated the various organizations that were working on nuclear fusion, none of which, for various reasons, were having much luck. Scientists died, sometimes under strange circumstances; projects, seemingly doing fine, were aborted; this, that and the other thing. Seemingly the project was jinxed.
It didn’t take much to come to the conclusion that Demming and Rostoff didn’t want nuclear fusion to take over from the uranium utilizing nuclear fission.
So he finally stood and made his way to the elevator and instructed it to take him to the reception room of Demming’s private sanctum sanctorum, where the other usually was at this time of day.
At the entrance to the inner sanctum was posted one of the bodyguards.
Don said, “I want to see Demming.”
The bodyguard said, politely enough, “You don’t have an appointment, Colonel Mathers, and he and Mr. Rostoff are having a conference. He says to keep everybody out.”
“That doesn’t apply to me,” Don snapped. “Get out of my way.”
The other barred the way, saying reluctantly, “He said it applied to everybody, Colonel Mathers.”
Don put his full weight into a blow that started at his waist, dug deep into the other’s middle. The guard doubled forward, his eyes bugging. Don gripped his hands together into a double fist and brought them upward in a vicious uppercut.
The other fell forward and to the floor.
Don stood over him for a moment, watchful for movement which didn’t develop. The hefty bodyguard wasn’t as tough as he looked. Had he moved, Don would have kicked him in the side of the head.
He knelt and fished from under the other’s left arm a vicious looking short-barreled laser pistol. He tucked it under his own jacket into his belt, then turned and opened the door and entered the supposedly barred office.
Demming and Rostoff looked up from their work across a double desk. The subservient Dirck Bosch was, as usual, on his feet and in the background a bit. Somewhat to Don’s surprise, Alicia was also present, seated to one side, rather idly going through an old-fashioned hardcover book.
She said, “Why, Don. Where have you been this last week or so?”
“Learning the facts of life,” he told her.
Demming leaned back in his swivel chair and said, “You’re sober for a change.”
Don Mathers pulled up a stenographer’s chair and straddled it, leaning his arms on the back. He said coldly, “Comes a point when even the lowest worm turns. I’ve been checking out a few things.”
Demming grunted amusement.
Don said, “Space patrols have been cut far back, although the people haven’t been informed of the fact.”
Rostoff snorted. “Is that supposed to interest us? That’s the problem of the military and the government.”
“Oh, it interests us, all right,” Don growled. “Currently, the corporation controls probably five-sixths of the system’s uranium.”
Demming said in greasy satisfaction, “More Like seven-eights and increasing by the week.”
“Why, then?” Don said bluntly. “Why are you doing what you’re doing?”
They both scowled but another element was present in their expressions too. They thought the question unintelligent. Alicia put down her book and frowned puzzlement.
Demming closed his eyes and said in his porcine manner, “Tell him, Max.”
Rostoff said, “Look, Mathers, don’t be stupid. Remember when we told you, during that first interview, that we wanted your name in the corporation, among other reasons, because we could use a man who was above the law? That a maze of ridiculous binding ordinances have been laid on business through the centuries?”
“I remember,” Don said bitterly.
“Well, it goes both ways. Government today is also bound, very strongly, and even in great emergency, not to interfere in business. These complicated laws balance each other, you might say. Our whole legal system is based on them. Right now, we’ve got government right where we want it. This is free enterprise, Mathers, at its pinnacle. Did you ever read about Jim Fisk and his attempt to corner gold in 1869, the so-called Black Friday affair? Well, Jim Fisk was a peanut peddler compared to us.”
“What’s this got to do with the Space Fleet having insufficient fuel to…” Don Mathers stopped as comprehension came to him. “You’re holding our radioactives off the market, pressuring the government for a price rise which it can’t afford.”
Demming opened his eyes and said fatly, “For triple the old price, Mathers. Before we’re through, we’ll corner half the wealth in the system.”
Don looked at him in disgust. “And supposedly we’re fighting a war. But that isn’t all I’ve hit on gentlemen. I’ve also come to the conclusion that it’s you two who are sabotaging the nuclear fusion project. How many times has nuclear fusion been discovered in the past couple of decades?”
Rostoff smiled wolfishly. “Three times.”
“And all three times you suppressed it?”
“That’s right. You wouldn’t expect us to destroy our markets for uranium, would you, Mathers? Nuclear fusion would make power practically free.”
Don was shaking his head. “But even that isn’t all. The fact of the matter is, there is no war.”
Alicia said, her frown deeper, “What are you saying?”
He didn’t bother to look at her. “There is no war, because there are no Kradens, and haven’t been since fifty years ago. They appeared for a very short period, discovered that we were hostile, and disappeared, never to return. Well, I’m blowing the whistle, gentlemen.”