Alan E. Nourse & J. A. Meyer (27 page)

There was no
chance to run, Libby
realized,
when she saw Adams' feet propped up on her desk. Somehow, in her mind, there
had always been the idea that at the last moment she would be able to run away,
somehow avoid facing it, call it all off and start with
a
clean slate, but she saw now with
a
sort
of horrified fascination that she had been deluding herself. The elevator had
closed behind her and gone back down below. The office secretary had seen her.
Adams had seen her.

She couldn't run now, or
ever.

She
turned on her most charming smile, her most friendly and sincere smile, her
you-don't-know-how-insanely-happy-(hebephrenic)-I-am-to-see-you smile, with a
little sex thrown in, even though, as she looked at him, Adams gave her the
same cold sick feeling in her stomach he always did. All she could actually say
was, "Good morning, there."

Adams of course was not taken in, and Libby
was instantly angry with herself for trying to fake her way through the
opening. Adams was laying for her. He had made up his mind already what he was
going to say and think and listen to; any attempt to ignore the fact would
simply debase her a little more. She knew her only hope now was to beat him to
the punch and keep feeding him answers before he could get the questions out.
And Julian was not there. Where in hell was he?

"I guess you're waiting for Mr.
Bahr," she said. Like
a
chimpanzee,
she thought, just like a chimpanzee, sitting a-round wisely with his thin pale
face framed by the thinning pale blond hair that he never seemed to cut. There
were two technicians like chimpanzees, too, practically picking fleas off
themselves in an effort to look like Adams.

"Where
is
Bahr?" Adams asked.

"He
had an emergency investigation last night," she said. "He may be a
little late getting here." "If he gets here at all," Adams said.
"He would have notified me if he couldn't make it." I see.
Silence.

There
was no clue as to whether she was supposed to sit down, or break down, or what,
so she carried out the ritual of hanging up her coat, straightening her hair,
deliberately showing off her figure a little because she thought it would make
Adams feel uncomfortable.

"I'd like to see your case history on
Bahr," Adams said.

"It's
not quite up to date. I have some notes in my apartment."

"Obviously," Adams said.

"His
latest
Brontok
," Libby snapped, flushing with
anger at his insinuation, which was not actually an insinuation but a statement
of fact. Of course Adams would know.

"We
can probably manage without anything from your apartment," Adams said
acidly. "I want to see what you have here."

"It's
up to date as of two weeks ago," she explained, sliding her safe drawer
open. "Mr. Bahr has been too rushed at work for scheduled analysis."
Even before she got the drawer all the way open, Libby sensed that something was
wrong. Something in the drawer had been changed. Someone had been tampering
with her files. She hesitated.

"Would
you mind?" Adams said, goading her. She lifted out Bahr's file, trying to
flip through briefly to see what might have been changed, or taken out, but
Adams was on his feet beside her, lifting the folder out of her hands.

She
started to say something, and then let it pass, hoping that maybe if she played
it dumb he wouldn't realize that she had spotted the tampering.

Adams
retired to the chair, leafing through the folder, pretending to study it.
Obviously he was stalling. He knew what he wanted to find; he was just hoping
to draw some comment from her by the long delay. She did not oblige him.

Finally
he looked up. "Are you familiar with the function of a DEPCO
therapist?"

"Certainly I am."

"How would you define
it?"

"Helping
people."

Adams
gave an impatient shrug. "All right, flood relief helps people, too. Is
that what you mean?"

"Helping
them to adjust their emotions and thinking processes to living in the
world," Libby countered. "Helping them gain insight into—"

"Miss
Allison, you've recommended Julian Bahr for six grade changes in the last four
years. Do you call this adjustment? When you let a highly questionable
individual accrue more responsibility and power with every up-grade? When you
put more and more strain on a sick personality?"

"He's
my case. I think the diagnosis is my responsibility.
And the
treatment."

"As
long as you remain his therapist, yes, but when you become his agent—"

"I'm still his
therapist," she said.

He raised his eyebrows.
"Really?
I thought this might have changed since his appointment as director of
DIA." "It's only a temporary appointment."

"Temporary.
Of course.
And he's still under treatment? Coming
along nicely, too . . . am I right?"

It
took strength to control
herself
. "You have the
case history there."

Adams
nodded sourly, and glanced back over the report. "No analysis, I see,
after four years. Didn't you think he needed analysis?"

"I
wasn't able to convince the patient until recently." Adams dropped the
folder on the desk with a thud, and her voice trailed off.

It
all sounded so weak. Even knowing in advance what Adams was going to ask didn't
improve the story. She had fouled the whole job completely. She had been
deluding herself, but she could see it now, coldly, unhappily. She had been
used. Even the most impartial witness, reading that case history, could have
seen that. She had twisted, bent, and sidestepped every principle, regulation,
safeguard and normal channel in DEPCO to do Bahr's bidding.

Therapist.
She
had a sour, nauseous feeling, and there was a dull, cramping pain in her
thorax. For the first time she saw, in stark, uncolored light exactly what she
had been doing. Somewhere, long ago, there must have been a reason, a sane,
rational reason, but what was it?

Twelve
years of training, six years of hard-earned experience, and she had thrown it
all out, a life's work, to play lover to a sick, ruthless brute.

A Phi Beta Kappa concubine.
. . .

The
phone was ringing. Adams picked it up. "It's Bahr.
For
you.
See that he gets here." Libby took the phone, surprised to
find her hands sweaty. She flicked on the local muffler so Adams could not
hear.

"Julian?
Yes, I know you're late.
All night?
You knew you had
this interview today." Damn him,
damn
him!
"I meant what I said, Julian, if you don't come over for the prelim
today,
Adams will have an injunction against you tomorrow
morning. This is 100 percent under DEPCO jurisdiction. Yes, you're damned right
I'm looking after my own neck; if I lose my rating . . . That's what I said—by
tomorrow morning. All right, I'll tell
him,
and
Julian . . ."

The
phone went dead. She hung up, and she knew her face was dead white and that she
was trembling all over when she turned back to Adams.

"He'll be right over," she said.

Back in the New York office after the night's
itinerary to Red Bank and
Trivettown
, Julian Bahr had
found a multitude of details to catch up on, progress reports to read, orders
to give, field units to check out. He almost but not quite forgot the interview
with Adams scheduled for nine. It was just that he could not force himself to
assign it any priority until it crammed itself down his throat and demanded
priority. There were so many other things, he thought, that demanded his
attention far more.

The
office was running with its usual furor of activity and efficiency, reports
neatly stacked on his desk, calls listed by importance. Certainly there was no
suggestion of a conspiracy against him here, only the hollow spot by his side
left by Carmine, and already he had determined, grimly, that there would never
again, ever, be a hole like that.

There
was a huge piece missing in the puzzle, too, which Bahr could not understand at
all. Alexander was still missing; there was no filed report on him. Surely if
Carmine had picked him up he would have been held someplace at Red Bank, or at
least somewhere in the East, but there was no sign of him.

He
scanned the reports. No further evidence of alien activity for four days,
almost five. "Which seems to us fairly ominous," one of the staff men
ventured, and Bahr nodded vehement agreement, slamming his fist angrily into
his palm. It was like watching a huge and expertly manufactured time bomb which
suddenly and inexplicably had ceased ticking.

But
the reaction to the Canadian landing and his speech-there had been plenty of
that, and it was still growing, still building furiously. Seventeen reported
landings across Federation
America,
every one tracked
down and found to be a false alarm. A new set of directives emerging from the
computers in the Caverns, almost hourly, to direct mass-control teams which
had been mobilized to counteract the spreading
panic,
and still the panic spread, until the control teams were unable even to assign
priority to segments of their own program. Five square miles of south Los
Angeles going up in flames after a riot attack against an alleged alien
stronghold in a tinderbox residential district.

And
frightened, helpless, desperate eyes turning, continually turning to
Washington and New York to do something,
do
something
. . . anything.

Carl
Englehardt's
report was there, a thick bundle of
papers that would take four hours of careful perusal, but a quick scan was
enough to see that
Englehardt
had known what he was
talking about. He knew he had to see Cad quickly, at least talk to Carl, and
then get the Joint Chiefs together again, though with the DEPCO thing hanging
over his head . . . Damn DEPCO! It was already almost 10:00. He would have to
move with great caution, but just as urgently he knew he would have to move
fast, faster than DEPCO would ever allow him to move.

He
told his girl to get Libby at her office, and sent out a tracer to locate
Englehardt
, possibly for an appointment at lunch. Thank God
there was one man left who did not quibble and whine and make excuses—one man
he could trust to move and to get things done. . . .

After
the call to Libby he cursed, canceled two appointments and called his car.
Down on the street he was stepping forward to the open door of the big Hydro
when a plush
black
Volta spun into the curb.
"Julian! Julian Bahr!"

Providentially,
it was
Englehardt
. "Let me drive you somewhere,
Julian. You've seen my report?"

Bahr
nodded, but hesitated as the two men walking with him caught up.

"You won't need
them,"
Englehardt
said smiling.

"No,
I guess not. Okay, boys, see you at the DEPCO building." He got into the
Volta. "They'll follow us like wolves," he said as the DIA men got
into the official car and moved out behind the Volta. Bahr looked at
Englehardt
. The man looked more tired, yet miraculously
younger than three days before.

"Why
all the precautions?" he asked Bahr. "Is that customary?"

"I
was assassinated last night," Bahr said. "You hardly look it. You got
the assassin, I presume."
"No, no leads at all
yet."
He didn't care to advertise rot in his own back yard.
"But something will turn up
shordy
."
"And the aliens?"

"Nothing.
A couple more missing men are back, all with the same story. Things are
just too damned quiet, I don't like it."

"You've got my report
now,
you know what I
can do,"

Englehardt
said. "If something stalls now, it
could be very costly. It could end everything, in fact."