Kennedy stepped back, startled by the vehemence of the blast. He felt no pain himself, and saw Marge’s pale, frightened face. Spalding was sagging to the floor, a jagged hole in his throat and a bewildered, surprised look on his face.
Then Kennedy felt Marge against him. She was quivering, and he held her tight, trying to keep himself from quivering also. He did not look at the dead man on the floor. He said quietly, “The gun went off while we were fighting. He shot himself. I think he’s dead, Marge.”
Through almost hysterical tears she said, “H-he put the ad in the paper. Then we came over here to wait for you. I tried to find some way of warning you, but there wasn’t any. And now—”
A shudder ran through her, and through him as well. “I guess he deserved it,” she said bleakly. “He would have turned you in. Ted, I’ve never seen a man get so rotten so fast. I was all wrong about him.”
“You thought you loved him, didn’t you?”
“Does it matter now?”
He tried to smile. “I guess not.”
“You won’t be bitter about it?”
Kennedy remembered fragments of a Ganny aphorism: Forgiveness is the heart and soul of existence. The past must not bind the people of the present, for they must heed the nearness of the future.
“We can start all over,” he said, and for a few moments they said nothing. Then Kennedy abruptly broke away from her.
“Spalding said he called Security. They’ll be here soon. I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Where will you go?”
“Downtown, to the agency. I have to get together some evidence.”
“What kind of—”
“I’ll explain everything later. Do you have a car here?”
“It belonged to Dave. It’s outside.”
“Good. We have to get away from here, fast. And I have a job for you.”
“Anything.”
“I want you to get to see Harrison Flaherty—the chief American U.N. delegate.” As he spoke, he removed the gun from Spalding’s clenched hand, pocketed it, and restored his own to the shoulder holster. “I don’t care how you manage it, but get in there to see him. Find out where he lives and see him at home—I know it’s someplace in Manhattan. Tell him you’re my wife, and that I’m coming over later to surrender myself to him in the name of the U.N.”
“What—”
“Don’t argue about it. Just do it. And let’s get out of here now. I don’t want them to catch me before I can give myself up.”
They drove down into New York City, taking the Second Avenue Skyway, leaving Spalding sprawled in the living room for the Security men to find. Kennedy was wanted for one murder already; it made no difference if they tacked another to his dossier.
He drove off the Skyway at East 122nd Street and stopped in a store on the corner, where he checked the directomat and discovered that the U.N. man’s residence was across town, at 89th Street overlooking the Hudson. He jotted down the address and pocketed it, and hailed a cab for Marge. The time was just before nine.
“I expect to be there in less than an hour,” he told her. He slammed the cab door and it drove away. He started to walk.
The business district, at this hour of night, was utterly deserted. The wide streets were empty in a way Kennedy had never seen before. He turned up East 123rd to Lenox, and the office building that housed Steward and Dinoli was before him. He felt a nostalgic twinge. He looked around, and, seeing no watchman on duty, entered.
He passed through the open front door and was met immediately by an inner barrier. He had a key to it, but the key would work only if his thumbprint were registered in the building’s central access file, down in the basement computer banks. It was a long chance, but removing a print from the computer banks was a troublesome business, and perhaps they had neglected to take his out.
He inserted his key and touched his thumb to the plate. The lock clicked; he pushed against the door and it swung back into its niche. They had not bothered to remove his thumbprint from the file after all.
He moved silently through the ghostly building, taking the stairs rather than the elevator (there was a concealed camera in the elevator that photographed all after-hours riders). Eight, nine, ten, eleven. Good old Floor Eleven again, after all these months. Almost three months. Last time he’d been here was the day before his ill-fated Ganymede journey. And now …
He used his key and his thumb again and let himself into the office. The lights were off, the windows opaqued. The familiar steady hum of daytime agency activity was missing.
Quietly he made his way past the outer desk to his old cubicle. He clicked on the pocket flash he had found in the tool compartment of Spalding’s car, and quickly gathered together the materials he wanted:
Dinoli’s bulletin quoting the timetable for unfolding of the project.
The volume of characterizations of colonists he and Spalding had compiled.
Half a dozen damning inter-office memoranda. His own master chart for developing crises in the day-to-day life of the Ganymede colonists.
It made a heavy little bundle. He shuffled it all together, found a big envelope and shoved it in. He had enough material here to explode the Ganymede hoax from top to bottom. The whole thing was here in all its cynical completeness.
He started to retrace his steps. He stopped; a light was on in one of the second-level offices in the back. Hastily, he shifted his burden from his left hand to the right and started to draw his gun.
A voice from behind him said, “What the hell do you think you’re doing, Kennedy?”
He whirled suddenly and in the dimness he saw Ernie Watsinski, lean and stoop-shouldered, staring at him. The second-level man had evidently been working late this evening. He dodged behind a desk suddenly, and Kennedy saw that the executive had a gun.
Quickly, Kennedy flattened himself against a door and ducked into one of the fourth-level cubicles. He said crisply, “Throw down your gun, Ernie. I don’t want to kill you. I’ve seen enough men dead on account of me.”
“Suppose you throw down your gun,” Watsinski replied. “I figured you’d come here eventually.”
Kennedy leaned out as far as he dared. Watsinski was barely visible; Kennedy saw the edge of one long leg protrude from the side of a desk, then hurriedly draw back. He heard the sound of a telephone dial being turned. He heard Watsinski’s voice: “Yes, give me Security. Hello? Ernest Watsinski speaking—of Steward and Dinoli. I’m in the S and D office now, and Ted Kennedy just attempted to break in. Eleventh floor. Yes, he’s armed. So am I. We’re in something of a stalemate right now. Get right over here.”
The receiver dropped back into the cradle. Kennedy began to sweat. From trap to trap! He eyed the distant door and wondered if he dared make a break for it. He had no idea how good a shot Watsinski was, but he knew quite definitely that if he stayed here much longer he would be boxed in by Security.
He moistened his lips. “Ernie?”
“I’m here. Just sit tight, Kennedy. Security’ll be here in a few minutes.”
Calmly, Kennedy squeezed a shot out. The roar split the silence; he heard the sound of the bullet crashing harmlessly into the desk behind which Watsinski was hiding. The second-level man did not return the fire; the advantage was with him only so long as his gun held ammunition. Kennedy fired two more shots in quick succession. The first hit the wall behind Watsinski; Kennedy was hoping for a lucky ricochet. The second smashed into the lighting fixture above them.
The room went dark. Kennedy sprang to his feet and headed for the door, clutching his package desperately. He heard the sound of shots behind him, wild desperate shots fired by the angry Watsinski.
He grinned to himself as he ran down the eleven flights of stairs.