“Don’t play dumb. Smith told ’em up at DU, that he’d laid the whole case before you.”
Maybe Smith had. Only Gallegher had been drunk at the time, and it was Gallegher Plus who had listened, storing the information securely in the subconscious.
“So?”
Cuff burped. He pushed his glass away suddenly. “I’ll see you later. I’m tight, damn it. Can’t think straight. But — I don’t want Smith to get that machine. Your robot won’t let us get near it. You’ll get in touch with him by visor and send him off somewhere, so the boys can pick up your gadget. Say yes or no. If it’s no, I’ll be back.”
“No,” Gallegher said. “On account of you’d kill me anyway to stop me from building another machine for Smith.”
Cuff’s lids drew down slowly over his eyes. He sat motionless, seemingly asleep, for a time. Then he looked at Gallegher blankly and stood up.
“I’ll see you later, then.” He rubbed a hand across his forehead; his voice was a little thick. “Blazer, keep the lug here.”
The man with the gold tooth came forward. “You O.K.?”
“Yeah. I can’t think—” Cuff grimaced. “ Turkish bath. That’s what I need.” He went toward the door, pulling Blazer with him. Gallegher saw the alderman’s lips move. He read a few words.
“—drunk enough…vise that robot…try it—”
Then Cuff went out. Blazer came back, sat opposite Gallegher, and shoved the bottle toward him. “Might as well take it easy,” he suggested. “Have another; you need it.” Gallegher thought: Smart guys. They figure if I get stinko, I’ll do what they want. Well—
There was another angle. When Gallegher was thoroughly under the influence of alcohol, his subconscious took over. And Gallegher Plus was a scientific genius-mad, but good.
Gallegher Plus might be able to figure a way out of this.
“That’s it,” Blazer said, watching the liquor vanish. “Have another. Max is a good egg. He wouldn’t put the bee on you. He just can’t stand people helixing up his plans.”
“What plans?”
“Like with Smith,” Blazer explained.
“I see.” Gallegher’s limbs were tingling. Pretty soon he should be sufficiently saturated with alcohol to unleash his subconscious. He kept drinking.
Perhaps he tried too hard. Usually Gallegher mixed his liquor judiciously. This time, the factors of the equation added up to a depressing zero. He saw the surface of the table moving slowly toward his nose, felt a mild, rather pleasant bump, and began to snore. Blazer got up and shook him.
“One half so precious as the stuff they sell,” Gallegher said thickly. “High-piping Pahlavi, with wine, wine, wine, wine. Red wine.”
“Wine he wants,” Blazer said. “The guy’s a human blotter.” He shook Gallegher again, but there was no response. Blazer grunted, and his footsteps sounded, growing fainter.
Gallegher heard the door close. He tried to sit up, slid off the chair, and banged his head agonizingly against a table leg.
It was more effective than cold water. Wavering, Gallagher crawled to his feet. The attic room was empty except for himself and other jetsam. He walked with abnormal carefulness to the door and tried it. Locked. Reinforced with steel, at that.
“Fine stuff,” Gallegher murmured. “The one time I need my subconscious, it stays buried. How the devil can I get out of here?”
There was no way. The room had no windows, and the door was firm. Gallegher floated toward the piles of junk. An old sofa. A box of scraps. Pillows. A rolled carpet. Junk.
Gallegher found a length of wire, a bit of mica, a twisted spiral of plastic, once part of a mobile statuette, and some other trivia. He put them together. The result was a thing vaguely resembling a gun, though it had some resemblance to an eggbeater. It looked as weird as a Martian’s doodling.
After that, Gallegher returned to the chair and sat down, trying, by sheer will power, to sober up. He didn’t succeed too well. When he heard footsteps returning, his mind was still fussy.
The door opened. Blazer came in, with a swift, wary glance at Gallegher, who had hidden the gadget under the table.
“Back, are you? I thought it might be Max.”
“He’ll be along, too,” Blazer said. “How d’you feel?”
“Woozy. I could use another drink. I’ve finished this bottle.” Gallegher had finished it. He had poured it down a rat hole.
Blazer locked the door and came forward as Gallegher stood up. The scientist missed his balance, lurched forward, and Blazer hesitated. Gallegher brought out the crazy eggbeater-gun and snapped it up to eye level, squinting along its barrel at Blazer’s face.
The thug went for something, either his gun or his sap. But the eerie contrivance Gallegher had leveled at him worried Blazer. His motion was arrested abruptly. He was wondering what menace confronted him. In another second he would act, one way or another — perhaps continuing that arrested smooth notion toward his belt.
Gallegher did not wait. Blazer’s stare was on the gadget. With utter disregard for the Queensbury Rules, Gallegher kicked his opponent below the belt. As Blazer folded up, Gallegher followed his advantage by hurling himself headlong on the thug and bearing him down in a wild, octopuslike thrashing of lanky limbs. Blazer kept trying to reach his weapon, but that first foul blow had handicapped him.
Gallegher was still too drunk to coordinate properly. He compromised by crawling atop his enemy and beating the man repeatedly on the solar plexus. Such tactics proved effective. After a time, Gallegher was able to wrench the sap from Blazer’s grasp and lay it firmly along the thug’s temple.
That was that.
With a glance at the gadget, Gallagher arose, wondering what Blazer had thought it was. A death-ray projector, perhaps. Gallegher grinned faintly. He found the door key in his unconscious victim’s pocket, let himself out of the attic, and wearily descended a stairway. So far, so good.
A reputation for scientific achievements had its advantages. It had, at least, served the purpose of distracting Blazer’s attention from the obvious.
What now?
The house was a three-story, empty structure near the Battery. Gallegher escaped through a window. He did not pause till he was in an air-taxi, speeding uptown. There, breathing deeply, he flipped the wind filter and let the cool night breeze cool his perspiring cheeks. A full moon rode high in the black autumn sky. Below, through the earth-view transparent panel, he could see the brilliant ribbons of streets, with slashing bright diagonals marking the upper level speedways.
Smith. Fatty Smith. Connected with DU, somehow—
With an excess of caution, he paid off the pilot and stepped out on a rooftop landing in the White Way district. There were televisor booths here, and Gallegher called his lab. The robot answered.
“Narcissus—”
“Joe,” the robot corrected. “And you’ve been drinking some more. Why don’t you sober up?”
“Shut up and listen. What’s been happening?”
“Not much.”
“Those thugs. Did they come back?”
“No,” Narcissus said, “but some officers came to arrest you. Remember that summons they served you with today? You should have appeared in court at 5 P.M.” Summons. Oh, yea. Dell Hopper — one thousand credits.
“Are they there now?”
“No. I said you’d taken a powder.”
“Why?” asked Gallegher.
“So they wouldn’t hang around. Now you can come home whenever you like — if you take reasonable precautions.”
“Such as what?”
“That’s your problem,” Narcissus said. “Get a false beard. I’ve done my share.” Gallegher said, “All right, make a lot of black coffee. Any other calls?”
“One from Washington. A commander in the space police unit. He didn’t give his name.”