But when they changed planes at Istanbul, there was a shift. A fat man was sitting in a seat across the aisle and behind Crobe and the doctor began to examine the fat man's brain, seeing through the skin and bone. It sure was a weird-looking brain on my viewer!
Crobe seemed to have thought of some way to alter it. The letters flashed:
EXHILARATION EXCELLENT
Satisfied that the third bug was working, I went out and had breakfast.
Something else was mildly disturbing me. I had missed my appointment with a woman the previous night-which shows how devoted an Apparatus officer must be to duty-and yet Ahmed the taxi driver had left no message today saying how he had handled it.
I had Musef, who was standing guard, go find Ters and get the data.
Musef came back, "Ters said that Ahmed didn't appear yesterday evening."
"Tell Ters to call and make sure the taxi driver will be here tonight," I said.
"Ters," said Musef, "doesn't think he'll come."
"He didn't say why?"
"You can't get much out of him with that crazy laugh of his," said Musef.
That was true. I tried to call Ahmed on the phone. No answer.
Well, maybe he'd had trouble finding a woman to bring. Yes, that must be it. I'd get on to him later when things were less pressing.
Meal finished, I went back to my secret room and the viewer.
I must not miss any part of Crobe's arrival in New York. Too much depended upon it!
I hitched the two-way-response radio close to me, ready to give the guards coaching if anything went wrong.
If Crobe failed, my own life could be hanging by a thread. Heller must NOT succeed!
It was predawn dark in a February New York.
After a six-hour delay in Paris that pushed my nerves to their limit, Crobe had finally arrived.
I looked at my other two viewers. No visio. Slow breathing. Aha! Both Heller and Krak were sound asleep. Crobe would catch them totally off guard!
His two security escorts got Crobe into an elevator in the Empire State Building. They got out on the right floor. The hall was empty of people and dim. One of them was carrying a big case with operating tools in it. The other one scouted ahead, apparently found the right corridor and door and came back.
They pushed Crobe forward. Then, before they turned the last corner, they got blasticks ready, took the restraint coat off Crobe, and while one stood by, the other took him up to the door with the jet plane on it. He knocked very loudly and then skipped back.
Crobe focused on the jet plane. Then he focused on the inside office, seeing it through the door. He started to walk through it, bounced and recoiled. He probably would not have remained there if his eye had not focused on the cat. It had been asleep on Heller's desk but had awakened now and was looking at the door to see what all the knocking and bumping was about. Crobe had probably never seen a cat before. Through the door, he was studying it. The digital letters said:
MYSTIFICATION
One of my other viewers had flashed at the first knock. I couldn't tell which one it was, Krak's or Heller's, until I looked at the letter on it: K. The Countess Krak had awakened.
She turned on a bedside lamp. She looked at an alarm clock: 5:39. She looked at the window and saw snow on the pane and behind it the greenish glow of the predawn city.
She got up, slid into some slippers, got into a red silk bathrobe and glanced at Heller. He was peacefully asleep, facing the wall.
My plans were not going quite right.
She went out of the "thinking room," closed the door behind her, turned on a light in the main office, crossed the snowy rug and opened the door.
Crobe got his attention off the cat. As the door sprang open before him, he stared.
"The Countess Krak!" he said. The digital-type letters said:
SURPRISE FEAR
"Come in," said the Countess, in Voltarian.
He moved forward timidly. She closed the door behind him. She said, "Sssh." She moved Crobe over to the secretary-boudoir room, pushed him in and closed the door.
Crobe stood there, staring at her, eyes fixed on the surface of her face. Anyone who had worked in Spiteos was completely aware that the Countess Krak could kill on sight.
"Now, just what are you supposed to do here, Doctor Crobe?" said the Countess Krak.
On Crobe's screen, the letters flared:
TERROR
It was my fault. I accept all the blame. I had not specifically told him she was in New York. I had only told him what to tell her if he met her. Suddenly I realized that he was probably unaware of the relationship between "the man" he was supposed to handle and the Countess Krak. Would he remember what he was supposed to tell her? Or would he mess up and get himself stamped into the rug?
"I... I... I forget," he said.
"Hmmm," said the Countess Krak. I certainly did not like the sound of that "Hmmm." She knew Crobe's twist for messing up bodies; she had worked making trained acts while he made freaks. She knew very well what he was capable of. She might suspect I had sent him to physically cripple Heller. What she said now would tell all. "What," she said, "did Soltan tell you to do?"
My hair stood up! If Crobe spilled the real data, the Countess Krak would come looking for me and I was a dead man!
Oh, this wasn't going well at all.
Crobe was stammering. My life thread was getting frayed!
It is wonderful what the presence of death can do for the mind. Men have even been known to think.
"I'm supposed to help the man with the spore formula," blurted Crobe. He had remembered.
"Ah," said the Countess Krak. "Well, I am sure your help will be most welcome. Why don't you sit right there?" She pointed to a chair against the wall. "You must be very tired after your long journey."
My two-way-response radio crackled. A guard's voice. "I think he's there all right. We got his bag here. What do we do? Just shove it in the office and come back?"
I said into it, "No, no. You wait right there out of sight. I don't like the way this is going."
"He must have the place bugged," said one guard to the other. "We're supposed to wait."
The Countess Krak was fishing into the upper shelf of the secretary's closet. She was getting down a box. "We'll just refresh you, Doctor Crobe. Relax you so you can get some sleep." She was taking something out of the box.
A hypnohelmet!
I suddenly began to pray. Under that, he might give up the real orders he had. And that would be the end of me.
On Crobe's head went the hypnohelmet. The letters on the screen flared:
DOUBLE TERROR
The click of the helmet switch as it went on. The letters on the screen shifted:
PEACE
Then they shifted again:
HYPNOTIZED
There was no other vision on Crobe's screen.
Krak plugged in the hand microphone. She said, "Just sit there quietly now and wait."
She put the microphone down.
She went out the door, crossed the office, opened the "thinking room" door and closed it behind her.
She knelt on the bed and touched Heller's shoulder gently. "Dear, exactly what kind of spores did you want?"
He sat up suddenly, the way a man used to action does. "Spores? What's this? Is somebody here?"
"No, no, dear. I just got to wondering."
"I'll get up," said Heller.
"No, no, dear. You've been up half the night rebuilding the Porsche for the new carburetor, and in that drafty garage, too. Just scribble down what you want in the way of spores. I always like to keep up with what you are interested in."
She was handing him a big yellow tablet and pen from the bedside table. Heller yawned. He began to write. He filled up the sheet. She took it.