"Arnold, the process you invented-have you ever tested it in practice?"
"Of course, you swine. Naturally. Of course. What do you take me for? One of your blow-hard call-boys?"
"It works, you say. Now listen, Arnold: we're working on a new theory at Ebery Air-car. We're planning to put out value at low cost. I'd like to build your process into the new model. If it actually does what you say. And I'd like to have you come back to work for us."
Letya Arnold snorted, his whole face a gigantic sneer. "Put that propulsion into an air-boat? Pah! Use a drop-forge to kill a flea? Where's your head, where's your head? It's space-drive; that's where we're going. Space!"
It was Mario's turn to be taken aback. "Space? Will it work in space?" he asked weakly.
"Work? It's just the thing! You took all my money-you!" The words were like skewers, dripping an acrid poison. "If I had my money now, patent or no patent, I'd be out in space. I'd be ducking around Alpha Centauri, Sinus, Vega, Capella!"
The man was more than half-mad, thought Mario. He said, "You can't go faster than light."
Letya Arnold's voice became calm, crafty. "Who said I can't? You don't know the things I know, swine-slut"
Mario said, "No, I don't but all that aside, I'm a changed man, Arnold. I want you to forget any injustice I may have done you. I want you back at work for Ebery Air-car. I'd like you to adapt the drive for public use."
Again Arnold sneered. "And kill everything that happened to be behind you? Every electron shot from the reactor would be like a meteor; there'd be blasts of incandescent air; impact like a cannon-ball. No, no-space. That's where the drive must go...."
"You're hired, if you want to be," said Mario patiently. "The laboratory's waiting for you. I want you to work on that adaptation. There must be some kind of shield." Noting the taut clamp to Arnold's mouth, he said hastily, "If you think you can go faster than light, fine! Build a ship for space and I'll test fly it myself. But put in your major effort on the adaptation for public use, that's all I ask."
Arnold, cooler by the minute, now exhibited the same kind of sardonic unbelief Mario had noticed in Correaos. "Blow me, but you've changed your tune, Ebery. Before it was money, money, money. If it didn't make you money, plow it under. What happened to you?"
"The Chateau d'lf," said Mario. "If you value your sanity, don't go there. Though God knows," and he looked at Arnold's wasted body, "you couldn't do much worse for yourself than you've already done."
"If it changes me as much as it's changed you, I'm giving it a wide berth. Blow me, but you're almost human."
"I'm a changed man," said Mario. "Now go to Correaos, get an advance, go to a doctor."
On his way to the Rothenburg Building and Kubal Associates it came to him to wonder how Ebery was using his body. In his office he ran down a list of detective agencies, settled on Brannan Investigators, called them, put them to work.
CHAPTER VII
Inventor With a Grudge
Investigator Murris Slade, the detective, was a short thickset man with a narrow head. Two days after Mario had called the Brannan agency, he knocked at Mario's workroom at Kubal Associates.
Mario looked through the wicket in the locked door, admitted the detective, who said without preamble, "I've found your man."
"Good," said Mario, returning to his seat "What's he doing?"
Slade said, in a quiet accentless voice, "There's no mystery or secrecy involved. He seems to have changed his way of living in the last few months. I understand he was quite a chap, pretty well-liked, nothing much to set him apart. One of the idle rich. Now he's a hell-raiser, a woman-chaser, and he's been thrown out of every bar in town."
My poor body, thought Mario. Aloud: "Where's he living?"
"He's got an apartment at the Atlantic-Empire, fairly plush place. It's a mystery where he gets his money."
The Atlantic-Empire seemed to have become a regular rendezvous for Chateau d'lf alumni, thought Mario. He said, "I want a weekly report on this man. Nothing complicated-just a summary of where he spends his time. Now, I've got another job for you...."
The detective reported on the second job a week later.
"Mervyn Alien is an alias. The man was born Lloyd Paren, in Vienna. The woman is his sister, Thane Paren. Originally he was a photographer's model, something of a playboy-up until a few years ago. Then he came into a great deal of money. Now, as you probably know, he runs the Chateau d'lf. I can't get anything on that. There's rumors, but anybody that knows anything won't talk. The rumors are not in accord with Paren's background, which is out in the open- no medical or psychosomatic training. The woman was originally a music student, a specialist in primitive music. When Paren left Vienna, she came with him. Paren lives at 5600 Exmoor Avenue-that's the Chateau d'lf. Thane Paren lives in a little apartment about a block away, with an old man, no relative. Neither one seems to have any intimate friends, and there's no entertaining, no parties. Not much to go on."
Mario reflected a few moments, somberly gazing out the window, while Munis Slade sat impassively waiting for Mario's instructions. At last Mario said, "Keep at it. Get some more on the old man Thane Paren lives with."
One day Correaos called Mario on the telescreen. "We've got the new model blocked out." He was half-placating, half-challenging, daring Mario to disapprove of his work.
"I think we've done a good job," said Correaos. "You wanted to give it a final check."
"I'll be right over," said Mario.
The new model had been built by hand at the Donnic River Plant and flown into Lanchester under camouflage. Correaos managed the showing as if Mario were a buyer, in whom he was trying to whip up enthusiasm.
"The idea of this model-I've tentatively called it the Air-farer-was to use materials which were plain and cheap, dispense with all unnecessary ornament-which, in my opinion, has been the bane of the Ebery Air-car. We've put the savings into clean engineering, lots of room, safety. Notice the lift vanes, they're recessed, almost out of reach. No drunk is going to walk into them. Those pulsors, they're high, and the deflection jets are out of reach. The frame and fuselage are solid cast plancheen, first job like this in the business."
Mario listened, nodded appreciatively from time to time. Apparently Correaos had done a good job. He asked, "How about what's-his-name-Arnold? Has he come up with anything useful?"
Correaos bared his teeth, clicked his tongue. "That man's crazy. He's a walking corpse. All he thinks, all he talks, are his pestiferous electrons, what he calls a blast effect. I saw a demonstration, and I think he's right. We can't use it in a family vehicle."
"What's the jet look like?"
Correaos shrugged. "Nothing much. A generator-centaurium powered-a miniature synchrotron. Very simple. He feeds a single electron into the tube, accelerates it to the near-light speed, and it comes roaring out in a gush as thick as your arm."
Mario frowned. "Try to steer him back onto something useful. He's got the brains. Has he been to a doctor?"
"Just Stapp, the insurance doctor. Stapp says it's a wonder he's alive now. Galloping nephritis or necrosis-some such thing." Correaos spoke without interest. His eyes never left his new Airfarer. He said with more life in his voice, "Look into the interior, notice the wide angle of vision; also the modulating glare filter. Look right up into the sun, all you want. Notice the altimeter, it's got a positive channel indicator, that you can set for any given locality. Then the pressur-izer, it's built in under the rear seat-see it?-saves about twenty dollars a unit over the old system. Instead of upholstery, I've had the framework machined smooth, and sprayed it with sprinjufloss."