“Too bad—I’ve got the rest of the day free, but I have to be back in Portston in the morning.”
“Of course…” Mannheim paused for what seemed an eternity to Garrod. “I don’t actually have to be there with you, though there are one or two Retardite tricks I’d like to have shown you in person—after all, you invented the stuff.”
“Discovered might be a better word,” Garrod said. “As you say, you don’t have to take time off to go with me. Why not just hand me over to a science officer. I really would like to look around your organization there.” Garrod wondered if he was sounding too anxious.
“I tell you what! I’ll let young Chris Zitron look after you. He’s the chief development officer and he’ll get a real kick out of meeting you. Let’s go to a viewphone.”
While Mannheim was making the call to Macon research centre Garrod stood directly behind him and kept an eye on the screen. Three female staff members appeared briefly as the visit was arranged, but none of them was Jane Wason. Garrod’s disappointment was mingled with a sense of shock as he realized what he was doing. His actions were remarkably similar to those of other men he had seen when they were completely bowled over by a woman, but he could feel nothing of the mystic elation which was supposed to accompany the experience. There was only a dogged, uncomfortable determination to see the girl in person.
When the arrangements were completed and Mannheim had hurried away, he went into the viewer booth, contacted his pilot at Dulles and told him to file a new flight plan to Macon. He went up to the roof and caught *a special DoD helijet flight to the airport, but the airspace above Dulles was more than usually congested and it was past four o’clock when his jet blasted its way up through the haze. There was no guarantee that he would be at the Macon base before the clerical staff quit for the day—in which case the whole trip was pointless.
Garrod lifted the intercom. “I’m in a hurry, Lou. Open her up. Top speed.”
“We have to fly at 20,000 feet in this corridor, Mr. Garrod. The boom reflectors aren’t too effective at that height, though.”
“I don’t care.”
“The FAA will come down on us, and there’s bound to be other flights in the same…”
“It’s my responsibility, Lou. Start burning.” Garrod sat back and allowed himself to be driven into the seat by acceleration as the compact jet went supersonic, riding rock-steady on the reflector wing which dispersed most of its shock wave upwards towards the stratosphere. The 6oo-mile flight lasted thirty-two minutes from take-off to touchdown, and he was leaving the aircraft almost before it had stopped rolling.
“The FAA computer complex was interrogating us most of the way, Mr. Garrod.” Lou Nash’s red-bearded face registered his disapproval as he called after Garrod from the exit hatch. “They had to clear two scheduled freight flights out of our path.”
“Relax, Lou, I’ll fix it.” One part of Garrod’s mind told hirri he had committed a fairly serious traffic offence which might not be easy to square, even for a man in his position, but the rest of him was incapable of caring. Is this what it’s like? he wondered feverishly as he walked towards the Army transport which was coming out to meet him from a cluster of low, sand-coloured buildings. If it is, I was better off before.
Lt. Col. Chris Zitron turned out to be a youngish man with a thin face, an intense way of speaking and long, knobbly-fingered hands. Without any preamble he began talking about his work on slow glass applications, going into fine detail on dual image systems—one transmitted through ordinary glass, the other through short-term Retardite—used for target speed computers, air-to-ground missile guidance, and terrain clearance systems for highspeed low-altitude aircraft. Garrod allowed the torrent of words to flow around him while he occasionally asked a question to show that his attention was not wandering, but he kept scanning the glass-screened admin offices. Each time he glimpsed a black-haired secretary he felt a surge of panic which turned to disappointment as the face proved to be the wrong one. He felt a dull sense of astonishment that a girl who had registered in his mind as unique could be resembled by so many other girls.
“I don’t know how John Mannheim manages to keep track of all three different projects,” he said during one of Zitron’s infrequent silences. “Has he a permanent office right here in the research complex?”
“No. The colonel operates out of Admin One. Over there.” Zitron pointed through a window towards a two-storey block, the windows of which glowed like copper in the dying sunlight. Garrod examined the building and saw men and women emerging in a steady stream from the front entrance. Cars glinted brightly, like beetles’ shells, as they began to move out of the parking lot.
“What’s the quitting time around here? I hope I’m not keeping you late.”
Zitron laughed. “I usually work till my wife sends out search parties, but most sections go at five-fifteen.”
Garrod looked at his watch. The time was 5.15. “You know, I’m becoming more and more interested in the impact that a good clean administrative set-up has on the ultimate efficiency of a research and development unit. Do you mind if we walk over to the offices?”
“Not at all.” Zitron looked faintly puzzled as he led the way out of the laboratory they were in. Garrod fought to make himself walk at the same casual speed as he saw a black-haired girl in an oatmeal-coloured suit come out of the main building. Was it Jane Wason? In spite of himself, he began to forge ahead of the other man.
“Hold on there, Mr. Garrod,” Zitron yelped suddenly. “What am I doing?”
“I’m sorry?”
“I almost let you walk off without seeing the purest application of the lot. Step through here a moment.” Zitron held open a door leading into a long prefabricated building.
Garrod glanced towards the administration block. The girl was in the parking lot, only her dark head visible above the cars. “I’m running a bit short of…”
“You’ll appreciate this, Mr. Garrod. We’ve gone right back to basic principles on this one.” He caught Garrod’s arm and walked him into the building which was little more than four walls with a roof made entirely of glass. In place of a floor it had a stretch of glass, with occasional shrubs and artificial-looking boulders towards the far end. The building was deserted but as he looked along it Garrod had an uneasy sense of something wrong, of being observed.
“Now watch this,” Zitron said. “Keep watching me.” He hurried away down one side of the building and at the other end disappeared into the shrubs. There was silence in the too-hot enclosure except for the distant sound of car doors slamming. A full minute dragged by with no further sign of Zitron and impatience began to pound in Garrod’s temples. He half-turned towards the door but froze as the grass nearby —where there was no visible agency—emitted a rustling sound. Suddenly Zitron appeared out of thin air a few paces away, with a triumphant grin.
“That was a demonstration of CAT—Covert Advance Technique,” he said. “What did you think of it?”
“Excellent.” Garfod opened the outer door. “Really effective.”
“In this experimental set-up we use very short delay Retardite panels—you will see me sneaking up on you at any moment.” Zitron pointed along the hall where occasional touches of reflected light now betrayed to Garrod’s eyes the presence of slow glass panels standing upright in the grass. A duplicate of Zitron was seen making a supernaturally silent zig-zag approach before vanishing from the nearest panel.