“indeed? When did he make this suggestion?”
“Just now, before he brought me here. He prettied up the language, but that’s what he wanted.”
“And what was your response?”
“I told him to forget it.”
Kitzmiller removed his glasses, breathed on the lenses, polished them, and laid them down on the desk. “I did not authorize Mr. Edge to conduct any discussion. He was to bring you directly to me.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Corey said. “I’m here now.”
“So you are. Shall we get to the point, then, Mr. Macklin? I assume the reason for your visit is to talk about your, ah, brain eaters.”
“I’d rather you wouldn’t call them my brain eaters, but that is why I’m here.”
Kitzmiller watched him impassively. The blue eyes were bright and cold.
“I have evidence that they originated right here at Biotron,” Corey continued.
“What kind of evidence?”
“Eyewitness reports.”
“How does it happen that I have not seen Biotron mentioned in your stories?”
“It’s not the kind of a thing we would print without authentication. I wanted to talk to you first. Get your side of the story. You do have a side?”
Kitzmiller studied him across the desk, the blue eyes like chips of ice. “May I talk to you off the record?”
“Sorry, but I can’t accept that. If you won’t talk to me for publication, I’ll go to other sources, but I won’t make any promises.”
“I see. Well, then, what is it you want to know?”
Corey pulled a wad of copy paper and a pencil from his jacket pocket. “To begin with, were these parasites, the ones that have been attacking people’s brains, developed here at Biotron?”
“Yes.”
Corey blinked, surprised by the sudden directness of the answer.
“But not, I hasten to add, deliberately,” Kitzmiller continued. “They were an accident. An unfortunate result of our research on a pesticide project. One we called in-house TCH-nine.”
Corey made rapid notes in his personal shorthand. “When was this project begun, doctor?”
“A little more than a year ago.”
“Is this TCH-nine still in production?”
“No. It was never used. The entire project was abandoned as soon as the potential dangers were recognized.”
“When was that?”
“Approximately two months ago.”
“And what was done with the stuff that had already been produced?”
Kitzmiller regarded Corey shrewdly. “Apparently, you have already heard that story.”
“I’d like to hear it from you.”
“The existing TCH-nine, which was no more than two liters in a pressurized canister, was scheduled for disposal in the usual way prescribed by the Environmental Protection Agency. Unfortunately, there was … an accident.”
“What happened?”
“The canister of TCH-nine, which was marked for disposal, was switched with another that contained purple dye being used for a dispersal test.”
Corey stopped writing and looked at him. “An accident, doctor? Switching a deadly substance for a harmless one? Don’t you have controls to prevent something like that?”
“We have always had an adequate control system.”
“Really?”
“Mr. Macklin, are you here for an interview or a debate?”
“Sometimes there is a fine line separating the two,” Corey said. “I’m not trying to get on your case, Dr. Kitzmiller, but people are going to want to know how the brain eaters got turned loose and who was responsible. Frankly, I find it hard to believe that it was an accident.”
“So do I,” Kitzmiller said.
It took Corey a beat to react. “Would you explain that?”
“My theory is not a popular one.”
“Nothing about the brain eaters is popular.”
“Your newspaper will probably put me down as an alarmist.”
“We’ll see.”
“Very well.” Kitzmiller sat more erect in his chair. “In the week prior to the exchange of the canisters, we had visitors.”
“Here at Biotron?”
“That is correct. It was a tour arranged by our State Department.” He mouthed the words as though they left a bad taste. “The visitors represented themselves as a delegation of agricultural specialists from the Soviet Union.”
“So?”
“Russians.”
“Yes, I understand. You said, ‘Represented themselves.’ Don’t you think they were authentic agricultural experts?”
“I know they were not.” He ticked off the names on his fingers. “One of them was Viktor Raslov, a high official in the Communist party. Another was Anton Kuryakin, a biochemist of considerable accomplishment in his own country. The other two I am certain were assigned by the KGB to ensure the loyalty of the others. They had the look.”
“The State Department didn’t know this?”
“Of course they knew. However, given the current political climate, they deemed it wise to pretend they believed the Russian’s transparent masquerade. This month we are friends.”
Corey stared at him. “Let me see if I understand this. Are you suggesting that these Russians who toured your plant are somehow guilty of unleashing the brain eaters?”
Kitzmiller gave a little snort of disgust. “I was sure you would react this way. The liberal press has turned a justifiable fear of the Russians into a joke. Russkies. Commies. These are the words of the liberal press. People who know the true nature of the Soviet Union and the men who rule there do not use cuddly nicknames for them.”
“I’m sorry, but you took me by surprise. Is it your position, doctor, that the Russians, whoever they are, during their visit to your plant, managed to switch the brain-eaters canister with the harmless one? That presumes an awful lot of knowledge for the Russians of your activities here and your procedures. It also presumes an incredible lack of security on your part.”
“That is not what I mean at all,” said Kitzmiller. “Although it is not unlikely that they had the knowledge of what we are doing, our security was at least adequate for keeping an eye on them while they are on our premises.”
“How, then, are they to blame?”
“Someone here is working for them. Their inspection tour was an opportunity to give the order for switching the canisters.”
“A spy in Biotron?” Corey tried unsuccessfully to keep the disbelief out of his voice. Kitzmiller did not seem to notice.
“Such a thing is not unheard of. Facilities with much tighter security than ours have been infiltrated. You must remember the case of TRW out in California.”
Corey made rapid notes. “Have you any idea who the spy is?”
“I am sorry to say that I have not. We had a suspect, but he does not seem likely now.”
“Who was that?”
“Rather an obvious candidate — the man who had the responsibility for disposal of the TCH-nine canister. We interrogated him at some length; however, I do not think he has the intelligence the Russians require of their people.”
“What’s his name?”
Kitzmiller hesitated a moment. “Are you going to print this?”
“Not unless it’s critical to the story.”
“I suppose it can do no harm to tell you now. He has been under surveillance since the accident. His name is Edward Gault.”
Corey wrote the name on the wad of copy paper. “There’s nobody else you suspect?”
“Our investigation was just getting under way. Unfortunately, because of this business” — he waved a hand to indicate the empty plant — “we had to suspend it.”
“Yeah, that’s unfortunate,” Corey said dryly.
He looked up from his notes and followed Kitzmiller’s glance over to the hat rack. There was something not right about it. The reflection in the glass was a shade too dark. He started to say something about it but was interrupted by the sound of running feet outside the office.