The doors slid open and Rossi wheeled him into the elevator. They headed for the seventh floor.
The guard spotted her from his marble-enclosed guard station and was moving toward her before she was halfway through the revolving door.
"Sorry," miss," he said, holding out his hands in a "Stop" gesture. "We're closed to all visitors now."
Sylvia took a deep breath and launched herself into character.
"Wanna shee my doctor."
"None of the staff doctors are here now. Only a few resident physicians. Who's your doctor? We'll leave a message for him."
She had decided to be a belligerent drunk. She had seen enough of them at her parties—she hoped she could be convincing.
"I'm not talkin' 'bout one of your goddamn staff doctors! I'm talkin' 'bout Dr. Alan Bulmer. He's a patient here!"
"Visiting hours ended at seven. They start again at one tomorrow."
"I don't give a shit about your visiting hours! I'm here now… and I wanna shee Bulmer now!" She started toward the elevators. "What floor is he on?"
He grabbed her gently but firmly by the arm and guided her back toward the door. "Tomorrow, lady. Tomorrow."
Sylvia snatched her arm away. "Do you know who I am, you… you lackey?"
"No. And I don't care. Git!"
Sylvia had to hand it to the guard—he was keeping his cool. But it was showing signs of wear.
"Call the senator!" she cried as he grabbed her shoulders from behind and firmly propelled her toward the door. "He'll tell you who I am!"
It was time to play her ace card. She lurched away from him and leaned over the front of the guard station. There was a large panel of green and red lights there. Only the green were lit; they glowed steadily. She let her knees buckle.
"I'm gonna be sick!"
"Not there you ain't!" He pulled her away and eased her onto a bench a few feet away. "Sit here. I'll get you some water." He reached for her glass of scotch. "And you've had too much of that already."
"Doncha touch that! Just get me some water."
As he stepped over to the water fountain and filled a paper cup for her, Sylvia took a breather. So far, so good. She glanced at her watch.
Almost time.
She stood up again and staggered over to the guard station.
"Hey! Get away from there!" the guard cried as he returned with her water.
"You're right," Sylvia said, holding up her glass of scotch. "I don't need any more of thish." She placed the glass carefully on the marble rim directly above the control panel, then she made sure to hit it with her elbow as she swung around to return to the bench.
The guard's cry of "Oh, shit, no!" mixed with the tinkle of breaking glass, followed by a chorus of electrical pops and hisses accompanied by acrid white smoke rising from the control board as twelve-year-old scotch leaked down into the printed circuits.
As buzzers and bells began to sound, Sylvia moaned. "Oooh, I'm gonna be so sick!"
The small aluminum grappling hook had caught the ledge of a darkened second-floor window on the third try. Ba hauled himself up the length of the attached quarter-inch nylon cord until he could grab the ledge and pull himself up and balance there. He repeated the process with the window directly above.
This was as far as he would go on the outside. Dr. Axford had said that the administrative offices were on the third floor. As Ba had hoped, they were deserted at this time of night, and there was no sign that the windows were hooked up to the alarm system. A brief flick of his flashlight revealed that the floor inside was carpeted. Good. He pulled the duffle bag up to the ledge, withdrew Dr. Axford's white lab coat, and wrapped it around his right hand. Turning his face away, he struck the window a hard backhand blow. A splintering crash was followed by a softer clatter of the shards falling against each other as they hit the carpet, then silence.
Ba hooked his grapple inside the frame and waited, ready to slide down to street level at the first sign of anyone coming to investigate. No one showed, so he climbed in. He donned the lab coat, which was far too short in the arms, and waited until it came: a cacophony of bells and beeps. It sounded as if every alarm in the building was going off at once.
Ba checked his watch: 9:32. He bowed his respect to the Missus. His old friend Sergeant Nash had chosen well for a wife. She was as resourceful as she was compassionate. He stepped into the deserted hall and from there made his way to the fire stairs near the elevator alcove. He was on the third floor; the senator's domain was on the twentieth.
He began to climb.
He was breathing hard when he reached the top level, so he stopped and rested a moment, peering through the small rectangle of wired glass. There was only one elevator door at this level, and one doubtlessly needed a key to travel this far. He checked the latch on the door. It was unlocked. A warning sounded in his brain. It would be senseless to lock a door to a fire stair, but if the senator was as security conscious as Dr. Axford had said, this door would be wired with an alarm. The security system, however, was in chaos now, so it might be safe to open it and check around for any other possible entry to the top floor besides the single elevator.
He moved out into the alcove and followed a short hallway to a set of double doors that was tightly closed. It was the only doorway on the entire floor. He briefly put his ear against it but could hear no sound from within. The entire level had a deserted feeling to it. He checked his watch: 9:40. He was on schedule, and it was apparent that Dr. Buhner hadn't arrived yet.
Ba hurried back to the stairwell to wait. He had decided that the simplest and safest course was to intercept Dr. Bulmer as he stepped from the elevator and bring him back down to street level—leaving behind whoever had been escorting him to the twentieth floor, of course.
When he heard the knock on the door, Alan glanced at the clock. Nine twenty-six. Right on time.
He opened the door and found himself face to face with the swarthy security guard who had refused to let him leave the wing hours ago. With him was another guard. They looked familiar, and then he recognized them as Axford's assistants. Their name tags said "Henly" and "Rossi."
He swallowed the anger that had been simmering for hours and said: "What happened to the white coats?"
"Traded them in," Henly, the blond guard, said.
"Catch that maniac?" Alan asked Rossi.
He nodded. "Yep. And we brought you a visitor."
Leaning heavily on his cane, Senator McCready shuffled into the room. An empty wheelchair sat behind him in the hall.
"Good evening, Dr. Bulmer!" he said, genially enough. "I hope the unavoidable extension of your stay here hasn't inconvenienced you too much."
Alan hid his shock at seeing the senator come to him. He had expected the opposite. Much of his rage evaporated at seeing the infirmity and debility of the man close up. The slowness of his movements, the exertion they cost him—he was in sad shape.
"What an unexpected pleasure!" he managed to say. "And don't give my incarceration a second thought. How often does a man get a chance to be alone with his thoughts for nearly half a day? A little introspection is good for the soul." He grabbed McCready's hand and shook it. "I can't thank you enough for what you've done for me!"
That last sentence, at least, was true. By coming to the Foundation, Alan had learned that he could prove the existence of the Dat-tay-vao and could predict the hour of its occurrence with a simple tide chart. He had also learned that it was destroying his mind. He had gained something despite McCready's treachery.