Davidson frowned, trying to remember what Garwood had said about the potential targets of his strange destructive power. Engines, plastics, televisions, had been on the list; modern conveniences had also been there. Did synthetic fibers come under the latter heading? Apparently so. He pulled the jumpsuit on, fingers brushing something thin but solid in the left breast pocket as he did so. He finished dressing, then dug the object out.
It was a plastic card.
Frowning, Davidson studied it. It wasn't an ID, at least not a very sophisticated one. His name was impressed into it, but there was no photo, thumbprint, or even a description. It wasn't a digital key, or a radiation dosimeter, or a coded info plate, or anything else he could think of.
Unless...
He licked his lips, a sudden chill running up his back. Engines, plastics, televisions... He'd been wrong; the card was a dosimeter. A dosimeter for the Garwood Effect.
Whatever the hell the Garwood Effect was. He gritted his teeth. All right, let's take this in a logical manner. The Garwood Effect destroyed plastics; okay. It also ruined car engines and pistols... and cigarettes and ash trays. What did all of those have in common?
He puzzled at it for a few more minutes before giving up the effort. Without more information he wasn't going to get anywhere... and besides, a persistent growling in his stomach was reminding him he was overdue for a meal. No one thinks well on an empty stomach, he silently quoted his grandfather's favorite admonition. Retrieving his crutches from the floor by his bed, he clumped off to the mess hall.
After the linen jumpsuit, he half expected breakfast to consist of nuts and berries served in coconut shells, but fortunately Backdrop hadn't gone quite that far overboard. The dishware was a somewhat nonstandard heavy ceramic, but the meal itself was all too military standard: nutritious and filling without bothering as much with flavor as one might like. He ate quickly, swearing to himself afterward at the lack of a cigarette to help bury the taste. Manhandling his tray to the conveyer, he headed off to try and find some answers.
And ran immediately into a brick wall.
"Sorry, Major, but you're not authorized for entry," the Marine guard outside the Backdrop garage said apologetically.
"Not even to see my own car?" Davidson growled, waving past the Marine at the double doors behind him. "Come on, now—what kind of secrets does anybody keep in a garage?"
"You might be surprised, sir," the guard said. "I suggest you check with Colonel Bidwell and see if he'll authorize you to get in."
Davidson gritted his teeth. "I suppose I'll have to. Where's his office?"
—
Colonel Bidwell was a lean, weathered man with gray hair and eyes that seemed to be in a perpetual squint. "Major," he nodded in greeting as Davidson was ushered into his office. "Sit down. Come to apply for a job?"
"More or less, sir," Davidson said, easing gratefully into the proffered chair. "I thought I could lend a hand in hunting down Dr. Garwood. Unless you've already found him, that is."
Bidwell gave him a hard look. "No, not yet. But he's in the Champaign-Urbana area—that's for damn sure—and it's only a matter of time."
Automatically, Davidson reached for a cigarette, dropping his hand to his lap halfway through the motion. "Yes, sir. I'd still like to help."
For a long moment Bidwell eyed him. "Uh-huh," he grunted. "Well, I'll tell you something, Major. Your file came through about an hour ago... and there are things there I really don't like."
"I'm sorry to hear that, sir," Davidson said evenly.
Bidwell's expression tightened a bit. "Your record shows a lot of bulldog, Major. You get hold of something and you won't let go until you've torn it apart."
"My superiors generally consider that an asset, sir."
"It usually is. But not if it gets you personally involved with your quarry. Like it might now."
Davidson pursed his lips. "Has the colonel had a chance to look over the rest of my file? Including my success rate?"
Bidwell grimaced. "I have. And I still don't want you. Unfortunately, that decision's been taken away from me. You're already here, and it's been decided that there's no point in letting you just spin your wheels. So. Effective immediately, you're assigned to hunter duty. Long-range duty, of course—we can't let you leave Backdrop until your updated security check is finished. You'll have a desk and computer in Room 138, with access to everything we know about Dr. Garwood."
Davidson nodded. Computer analysis was a highly impersonal way to track down a quarry, but he knew from long experience that it could be as effective as actually getting into the field and beating the bushes. "Understood, sir. Can I also have access to the less secure areas of Backdrop?"
Bidwell frowned. "Why?"
"I'd like to get into the garage to look at my car, for one thing. Garwood may have left a clue there as to where he was headed."
"The car's already been checked over," Bidwell told him. "They didn't find anything."
Davidson remained silent, his eyes holding Bidwell's, and eventually the colonel snorted. "Oh, all right." Reaching into his desk, he withdrew a small card and scribbled on it. "Just to get you off my back. Here—a Level One security pass. And that's it, so don't try to badger me for anything higher."
"Yes, sir." The card, Davidson noted as he took it, was a thickened cardboard instead of standard passcard plastic. Not really surprising. "With your permission, then, I'll get straight to work."
"Be my guest," Bidwell grunted, turning back to his paperwork. "Dismissed."
—
"What in blazes happened to it?" Davidson asked, frowning into the open engine compartment. After what had happened to his cigarettes and gun, he'd rather expected to find a mess of shattered metal and disintegrated plastic under the hood of his car. But this—
"It's what happens to engines," the mechanic across the hood said vaguely, his eyes flicking to Davidson's orange jumpsuit.
Davidson gingerly reached in to touch the mass of metal. "It looks half melted."
"Yeah, it does," the mechanic agreed. "Uh... if that's all, Major, I have work to get to."
All right, Davidson thought grimly to himself as he clumped his way back down the corridor. So this Garwood Effect doesn't affect everything the same way. No big deal—it just means it'll take a little more work to track down whatever the hell is going on here, that's all.
What it didn't mean was that he was going to toss in the towel and give up. Colonel Bidwell had been right on that count, at least; he did indeed have a lot of bulldog in him.
—
Dr. James Garwood was one of that vanishingly rare breed of scientist who was equally at home with scientific hardware as he was with scientific theory. A triple-threat man with advanced degrees in theoretical physics, applied physics, and electrical engineering, he was a certified genius with a proven knack for visualizing the real-world results of even the most esoteric mathematical theory. He'd been a highly-paid member of a highly respected research group until two years previously, when he'd taken a leave of absence to join the fledgling Backdrop Project. From almost the beginning it seemed he'd disagreed with Saunder's policies and procedures until, three months ago, he'd suddenly disappeared.
And that was the entire synopsis of Garwood's life since coming to Backdrop. Seated before the computer terminal, Davidson permitted himself an annoyed scowl. So much for having access to everything that was known about Dr. Garwood.
Of Garwood since his break there was, of course, nothing; but the files did contain a full report of the efforts to find him. The FBI had been called in early on, after which the National Security Agency had gotten involved and quickly pulled the rest of the country's intelligence services onto the case. In spite of it all, Garwood had managed to remain completely hidden until the report of yesterday's incident at the Springfield bus station had happened to catch the proper eye.