19
He emerged breathless in front of the building and stopped for a moment. The drizzle that had been starting as he entered the building had developed into a full-sized autumn squall. Kennedy reflected that the Bureau of Weather Adjustment had always been better at making rain than in heading it off.
The car was parked a block away. He started to run, wrapping his package under his jacket to protect the documents from the rain. He looked back and saw a car pulling up outside the S and D building. Security men; he was getting away just in time. He accelerated his pace.
He reached the car dripping wet and half-dizzy from the running, unlocked it, climbed inside. He clicked on the ignition, waited a moment for the turbogenerator to deliver some energy, and drove off. Flaherty lived on Riverside Drive and 89th. He hoped there wasn’t much cross-town traffic.
There was no sign of the Security car behind him as he drove. At least, not for the first few minutes. But he saw the car come into view as he reached East 96th Street and turned right onto the Crosstown Skyway, and knew he was being followed.
The Skyway had a minimum speed of seventy. He jammed the accelerator down hard, pushed up above seventy-five. The needle on the speedometer approached the eight and the zero. The car back of him kept pace.
He swerved off the Skyway suddenly at the Amsterdam Avenue turn-off, doubled back to Columbus, then shot down to 88th Street through the side-streets. Rain and darkness combined to make driving rough. He drove westward along 88th, made a sharp right at West End, and cruised down 89th toward Riverside Drive, conscious that he was going the wrong way on a one-way street and hoping that nobody would decide to travel eastward on 89th at that moment.
No one did. He sprang from the car and headed for the apartment building on the corner. Apparently he had lost his pursuers, at least long enough to reach Flaherty.
A shingle on the side of the building said Harrison M. Flaherty, Ambassador Extraordinary to the United Nations from the United States of America. Kennedy did not bother to read the small print. As soon as he saw the neat block letters that said Harrison M. Flaherty, he knew he had come to the right place.
Just inside the door someone in the uniform of an attendant said, “Who is it you would like to see, please?”
Kennedy caught the man staring at him strangely and was conscious that he hardly looked impressive, soaked as he was by rain and sweat. His heart was pounding so hard he could hardly talk. He managed to say, “Am—Ambassador Flaherty.”
The doorman scowled imperiously at him. Kennedy felt like killing him. “Is the Ambassador expecting you?”
Kennedy nodded. “My wife’s up there now. At least, I think she is. Why don’t you phone upstairs and see?”
“I’ll do that.”
Kennedy stood to one side, keeping an eye on the front door, while the doorman picked up the house phone. “Your name, please?”
“Kennedy. Theodore Kennedy.”
It seemed that the doorman’s wide eyes went wider, but he said, “Will you tell Ambassador Flaherty that there’s a Mr. Theodore Kennedy down here to see him.” Pause. “What? It’s all right? Very well. I’ll send him up.”
The doorman pointed. “Elevator over there. Sixteenth floor.”
Kennedy smiled ironically. “Thanks for the help, friend.” He rang for the elevator and punched 16.
On the way up he leaned against the elevator wall, gasping for breath. Moisture streamed down his face. He pushed his hair out of his eyes.
The elevator stopped and Kennedy got out. He saw he was inside the foyer of one of those ultra-large apartments with private entrances. He was staring at three men in the drab uniform of the United Nations Security Police, and they were looking at him coldly, almost menacingly.
“Are you Kennedy?”
He nodded. He tried to see behind them; it seemed that some kind of party was in progress. Did Marge get here? he wondered.
The Security men advanced on him. He made no attempt to resist. One efficiently frisked him and relieved him of both guns, his own and Spalding’s, while a second held his arms. The third relieved him of the package he carried.
“Mr. Kennedy?” a deep, calm voice said.
Kennedy looked up. He saw a bulky, impressive, gray-maned figure of a man, standing at the entrance to the small foyer and regarding him with curiosity and a faint repugnance. Next to him Kennedy saw Marge, looking white-faced and frightened.
“I’m Kennedy,” he said. “My wife—”
“Your wife succeeded in forcing her way in here half an hour ago, and insisted on telling me a wild and bizarre story. I was entertaining guests at the time. I will feel most resentful if the story turns out to be false.”
“It’s true,” Kennedy said, trying hard not to sound like a crackpot. He took a deep breath and stared at the frowning face of the U.N. delegate. “I don’t ask you to believe me on faith, Mr. Flaherty. Lock me up. Put me in custody. Only”—he nodded at the package of documents held by one of the Security men—“read those papers. That’s all I ask. Just read them.”
“I’ll do that,” he said. He glanced at the Security men. “Meanwhile, suppose you three place him under guard. And watch him. He seems to be quite elusive.”
The General Assembly of the U.N. in plenary session was an impressive sight for Kennedy, especially after his night in jail. The flags of the hundred-member organization decked the hall, and above them all rose the U.N. flag—the World Flag.
Ganymede was the topic of the day, Juan Hermanos of Chile was presiding. Yesterday, it had been agreed that the Portuguese delegate would have first word at this session but after the opening gavel fell, U.S. Delegate Flaherty rose solemnly and asked for the floor.
He said, “It has been decided that Mr. Carvalho of Portugal is to speak first today. But I wish to beg that the Chair see fit to ask Mr. Carvalho to yield place to the delegation of the United States.”
The parliamentary shift was accomplished; in full possession of the floor, Flaherty nodded to the assembled delegates and contined:
“The topic most frequently discussed before this organization in recent months is that of Ganymede, the moon of Jupiter, on which a colony of Earthborn men and women has been planted. This colony has been planted by the Extraterrestrial Development and Exploration Corporation, whose Mr. Bullard I see in the group before me. The work of the Corporation is well known. Applying private capital where public financing was impossible, the Corporation gave mankind the key to the stars. From among its ranks were chosen the few hundred who comprise the colony on Ganymede, the colony whose privations and dangers we all have followed with such keen interest since public announcement of its existence was made last spring.
“In short the Extraterrestrial Development and Exploration Corporation has, in the past fifty years, become virtually a supranational state, with lands of its own, police of its own, now a spacefleet of its own. This sort of private enterprise is considered commendable by current standards, since we all know the officers of the Corporation have long worked in the best interests of humanity.
“But last night a visitor came to me, a young man who has been active in the task of disseminating news of the Corporation’s recent programs. He brought some rather startling papers with him to show me. I have looked through them, and I can attest they are genuine. I believe it now becomes necessary to reevaluate our entire set of beliefs, not only in the matter of Ganymede but in the matter of Corporation activity in general. I would like to yield place, if it be so resolved by this body, to Mr. Theodore Kennedy, Executive Third-Level of the public relations firm of Steward and Dinoli of this city.”