Mr. Waverly nodded. "I would agree with most of that, Miss Dancer. We all know how very difficult it will be to uncover centers which are in normal houses. But there must be some storage capacity beyond any you found in Europe, and surely to cover our big cities will require stockpiling of containers of K.S.R.6?—in warehouses or other large buildings?"
"April is right," said Mark. "There may be large numbers of operators engaged in the whole project, but small groups on fast little machines could zip through New York almost in a day, This K.S.R.6 stuff doesn't need to be pumped out by the gallon, does it?"
"No," said April "On a rainy day they would require surprisingly little. And we must remember that in many towns they may not need to be mobile. In fact, their agents may already be working on street signs, traffic lights, lamp posts—a whole host of ordinary dispersal points. These attachments—or even street signs containing them—can be put up by people who'd attract no attention, such as window cleaners, street-lighting maintenance men, sign erectors, painters."
"Whilst we are looking only for dollies in tin dresses?' said Mr. Waverly. "Or even men in metal suits?"
"They bother me," said Mark. "The rest of the K.S.R.6 plot is terrifyingly simple. Why complicate it by using such costumes? They're a dead give-away. We can surely round up every person wearing such clothes?"
"I think there are two good reasons," said April. "The first is technical. Continual exposure to the globules of K.S.R.6 at the time of dispersal—that is, before they vaporize—will cause severe dermatitis. A concentration of vapor will cause irritation and some peeling similar to sunburn. The second is that these suits protect all paper money."
"So do their wallets and purses," said Mark. "Why not use only those?"
"I think the third reason is largely psychological." April smiled. "In all massive demonstrations by power-seekers—as in justice—it must not only be done but be seen to be done. They expect us to react, and it will be difficult to avoid publicity. The witch hunt will be on. Every person in a metal suit will be grabbed off the street. But everyone's money will melt just as fast. You'll never stop the panic."
Mark nodded. "Because the stuff will be spraying all over them from street signs and other points. They'll carry it into the banks, shops, offices—their homes—and not know it."
Mr. Waverly said: "Part of the reports stress that areas with high rainfall—especially those subject to heavy mists and fogs—are ideal places for testing K.S.R.6. The atmospheric tolerance is an important factor."
"Yes," said April. "Part of that was in my report. Mist, fog and air moisture was the plus factor at Dartmoor. But they now have perfected K.S.R.6. Those conditions may not be so vital."
Mr. Waverly rose from his chair. "Let us go into the map room. Mr. Kovac has been given a small assignment. We will see what he can surprise us with." He rippled his pipe stem up the edges of the stacked files. "Nobody else has done so. We really must get rid of this mountain of paper work." He looked at Mark "Oh, by the way, Mr. Slate—isn't ten thousand francs a trifle excessive for local produce in France?"
"Well, sir, they produce banknote paper and—er—sleeping models in that part of the world."
"Ah! Quite so. We also have a claim for fifteen gallons of petrol, plus car hire from our British friends. I gather the mileage was something under a hundred. But perhaps we don't use the same route maps?"
"High-speed running," said April. "A very powerful car. My fault, I'm afraid. I ran the tank dry."
Mr. Waverly nodded sympathetically. "Yes, fast driving does run away with the gas. And Dr. Karadin wasn't courteous enough to pay for your lunch in the Post Office Tower restaurant?"
Mark flickered a grin at her. He said to Mr. Waverly:
"You wouldn't expect her to be false to her career-woman image, would you? You don't take the little woman out to lunch today, y'know. In this shining new world it's the woman who always pays—or was that what Gladstone said in 1886?"
"I wouldn't know, Mr. Slate," said Mr. Waverly dryly. "I hope that when Miss Dancer receives her expenses voucher she will duly compensate you for your support."
"I doubt it," said Mark. "She never has."
"In my young days," said Mr. Waverly as they entered the map room, "we had a sense of honor about such things."
"Ouch!" said April, then smiled brightly. "Hullo, Randy!"
"Hullo, old son!" said Mark. "Rescued any good agents lately?"
Randy grinned hugely. He had been bubbling ever since he had known they were on their way back, clock-watching at home, wondering what excuse he could make for calling in at H.Q. when it wasn't really his period for reporting, saying to himself: "They're just about boarding the aircraft. Now they're in mid-Atlantic."
Then the phone had rung. "Ah! Mr. Kovac!" Mr. Waverly was casual—a sure sign of pressure. The greater the crisis, the more casual, it seemed, he became. "If you could spare the time there is some work you could do for me before Miss Dancer and Mr. Slate arrive. You have been aware of this Global Globules nonsense from the start. So perhaps a follow-through session will be good experience for you. Yes—as soon as you like."
Randy Kovac became jet-propelled. He almost bounced off the U.N. building which towered over the street of the small tailor shop, so directly did he speed to H.Q. At last he was on an assignment! He, Randy Kovac, would be there when his two "ideals" arrived! At least he'd take darn good care he was there!
Some of the steam went out of his bubbles when he found that his assignment was a boring repetition of much of the work he'd already done in plotting, mapping and cross- referencing the Globule incidents in America. But the follow-through work set his already lively imagination ablaze.
If April Dancer was an intuitive, or hunch follower, Randy Kovac was a super-plus-intuitive. He was inspired by hero-worship, plus career-drive, plus sublime belief that he couldn't fail, plus the Irish blood in him that held the blessed strain of unending faith in "the little people", and the grace and favor of generations of Irish luck.
"Fine!" said Randy Kovac in what he hoped was a normal voice. "Just fine!" But in trying to be normal, his voice persisted in going way up, then way down again, his brain feathery light despite the long hours spent checking and cross-checking his own theory. He was nervous of Mr. Waverly, though, because many of those hours of work hadn't been as routine as perhaps they should have been. "I read the reports you gave me, sir."