"Can he?" I asked.
"Something's been raising hell with our missile tests down here, for years, off and on. There's never been a really good explanation for it. He claims to be it. If he is… "
Gail said angrily, "Look, I'm just a poor little Texas girl who flunked math and physics. Will you bright, bright men just tell me in words of one syllable what it's all about?"
I said, "Honey, at ten o'clock, if Wegmann's got the time right, that missile will take off and come whistling up the range. A bullet with a brain, Jim just said. A brain that can take orders. Well, our friend Wegmann has a machine that gives orders. You saw it. Now do you understand?"
"But-"
"At a certain number of seconds or minutes past ten," I went on, "that gizmo in the tower will pick up the approaching Wotan and assume control, blanking out all other signals in some way, don't ask me how. Then Wegmann will swing his sights around towards that camp across the valley, full of congressmen and senators and scientific geniuses including Dr. Rennenkamp himself. Even if Wegmann can't see it from here, he's already got the bearing, you heard him say so. I don't suppose his machine is bothered by a little haze. And the big bird, if everything works right, will just ride the beam right down into camp… Can they actually turn one of those things through ninety degrees?" I asked Romero.
He shrugged. "Wegmann says so, this type, anyway." Gail said, "You mean… you mean just sitting here he's going to blow up all those people? Why, that's downright horrible!"
That, I thought, was quite an understatement, in her soft Texas voice. I thought of Buddy McKenna, over in the shadow of the Manzanitas. Illegitimati non carborundum, he'd told me. Don't let the bastards grind you down. He'd had a premonition, I guess, the kind good newsmen get.
I said, "Does it matter whether Wegmann is sitting or standing when he does it?" Then I raised my voice and cried, "What the hell do you think you're doing? Who invited you to the conference? Don't you come sucking around here, you treacherous slut!"
I gave her a shove with my shoulder that sent her sprawling.
XXV
It was that damn racket. I should have been watching the door, of course, and I thought I was, but you get in the habit of depending on your ears as well as your eyes- and ears were no use in there. My vigilance must have slipped for a moment. Suddenly Gunther was there, pistol in hand-the little nickel-plated weapon with which he'd shot LeBaron, by the looks of it-closing the door behind him.
We were all acting much too cozy and friendly, sitting there like three monkeys on a stick. Something had to be done about it fast, and I did it. Maybe it was a little rough on Gail, but on the other hand, it gave her a good springboard from which to dive into her act. After the first moment of shock, I saw understanding come to her. She started to look around, but checked herself in time. Her face puckered up nicely, and a couple of real tears trickled down her cheeks, as she stared at me reproachfully.
Gunther was above us now. "I declare," he said, "a real pretty tableau. Let's see those ropes!"
He checked my bonds and Romero's, then went over to Gail, who was curled up in a woeful little ball, watering the floor with her tears. He tested the ropes on her wrists and ankles, and nudged her with his foot.
"Turn it off, honey," he shouted. "This is Sam, Precious. Remember Sam, the guy who knows you like a book?
Anyway, he said something like that. It was hard to make out the exact words through the steady, pounding racket. I wanted to tell him he was dead, standing there in his big hat and high-heeled boots. That was what he'd been put here for, of course. He thought he was being given the responsible job of watching the prisoners, but Wegmann had given me the hint, and I knew Mr. Gunther was merely being kept on ice, so to speak, until Wegmann decided how best to dispose of him along with the rest of us. He'd been groomed for the part of Cowboy, and he was going to play it dead.
I started to shout at him, to tell him so, but he would have thought it a trick to turn him against his friends-an old, corny trick to try on a smart man like him. It was better to let Gail handle it. She'd stopped sobbing at the touch of his foot. Now she raised her head, turning her streaked face up to him.
"Oh, Sam!" she cried. "Sam, I'm so glad to see you, honey! You're going to help me, aren't you? We've always been friends, haven't we, Sam? You're not going to let them…" She stumbled prettily and convincingly over the words, "… kill me?"
"Why the hell should I help you, Precious?" he asked.
"Oh, Sam," she said, "you can't fool me, honey. I know you're good and kind…"
I lost the rest of that, as she lowered her voice slightly. She wasn't following the script I'd roughed out for her, which was all right, but I was afraid she was overdoing it a little. It was pretty crude. But she knew her man better than I did.
"Good and kind, am I, honey?" Still interested, he laughed at her, lying at his feet.
"Yes, they tried to tell me you killed Janie-had her killed-but I know you didn't do anything of the sort. I just know it!"
I didn't like that at all. I could see that she might want the final word on her sister's death, but it was the wrong place for detective work. I was getting the belt buckle around back where I wanted it, under cover of my disordered shirt, but if she annoyed him and lost his attention I'd have a hard time preparing and using it with him watching, particularly since my fingers seemed to have no feeling and hardly any strength.
I lost some more conversation with all the noise. He was laughing again. "… so you think you know Sam Gunther, all you rich bitches doling out a little money here and a little there in return for a lot of flattery and a bit of loving? Well, the time is coming, Precious, when you'll be doing the flattering and I'll be handing out the money… As for your sister, she was sent to kill me, did you know that. To kill me!" He sounded shocked. "She broke down and told me so herself!"
Gail said something I couldn't hear over the noise.
"That's right," he shouted back, "but I could always get around her, remember? I had her eating right out of my hand. She was still in love with me, and she had a guilty conscience a mile wide, after what she'd tried to do. Also, she was a sucker for Dr. Naldi's pitch, the silly little fool… Well, she wasn't so little, come to think of it. She was a well-stacked kid; she really looked good on that stage, I'll give her that. It was kind of a pity. But she knew too much, and things were getting tight. I didn't want her delivering the evidence to me with a couple of coppers watching. So I snapped my fingers, just like that." He snapped his fingers. "I can kill, too, Precious, if they force me to it. And when I'm through, I'll have more men around me like the man who threw the knife that night, tough men, dangerous men, just waiting for me to snap my fingers again!"
She said something else, and he said something else, still telling her what a big man he was going to be some day. Or words to that effect. His type are always going to be big men some day. I'd heard the routine before so many times I didn't bother to listen to the Gunther version. They're always small men wanting to be big, and they never make it. They always wind up stooges for pros like Wegmann.
But he was giving me time, and that was fine, but then he stopped talking and started to move away. That wasn't good. If he got to sitting down on the wooden stool over by the engine with his gun ready, watching, I'd never manage to do what needed to be done, unseen, with my clumsy, bound hands.