Part 3 (2/2)

”I mean everybody connected with new projects, the most important installations. This might be a weapon for us.”

When he received the Secretary's report a week later, John grinned happily. The rechecks had begun, and the disappearances were mounting.

But the grin faded when he read the rest of it. Two of the men had been caught attempting to escape. They had been lodged in a local jail to await transfer to the capitol. During the night, the jailer became aware of a blinding light from the cell-blocks and the stench of burnt organic matter. By the time he reached their cells, the men were gone, and there were only sickening fumes, charred ashes, and a pair of red-hot patches on the floor. Somehow they had gotten incendiary materials into their cells, and the cremation was complete--too complete to be credible.

Then the disappearances began to taper off--until finally, after a few weeks, they ceased completely. He wondered: were the culprits all ferreted out, or had some of them managed to get around the rechecks?

He had spoken to the Asian leader several times, and Ivan was growing curt, even bitingly nasty at times. The President hopefully interpreted it as a sign that his probe was successful enough to worry the Red. He tried to strengthen his position with respect to the proposed conferences, and made only minor concessions such as agreeing to a coastal city in Mexico as the site, rather than the s.h.i.+fting capitol.

Ivan sneeringly made equally minute adjustments eastward from Singapore.

There was apparently going to be a deadlock, and John was somehow not sorry.

Then the cold-eyed face on the screen did an abrupt about-face, and announced, ”I propose that the delegates, including the leaders of both states, meet at a site of your selection in either of the neutral polar regions, not later than Seventhday of Veto Week--which, I think is your Fried Pie Week?--and come prepared to discuss and exchange information relating to size of armament-inventories and future plans. This is my last proposal.”

They stared at each other coldly. John started to utter a refusal, then paused. Seventhday of ... it was one day before the satellite program began moving into s.p.a.ce. If he could keep the Eastern Leader tied up for a few weeks afterwards--

”I'll consider your proposal and give you a reply tomorrow,” he said bluntly.

The Peoplesfriend gave him a curt nod and clicked off the screen. John chuckled. The enemy's espionage program was evidently getting badly hurt. About one percent of the West's population had been executed, imprisoned, or s.h.i.+fted to other jobs as a result of the congressional probe. The one percent probably included quite a few guilty citizens.

”Rodner, I want a Strike-Day set, a full-scale blitz-operation readied as soon as possible,” he told the defense-chief. ”I know that a lot of your target information is forty years old, but work out the best plan you can. A depopulation strike, perhaps; there are only two opinions in the world, so 'world-opinion' is not one of the things we need to consider.”

The Defense Secretary caught his breath and sat stiffly erect. ”War?” he gasped.

”Don't use that word.”

”Sorry, peace-effort.”

”No. At least I hope not. I want a gun aimed at them as a bargaining point. But I want it to be a d.a.m.ned _big_ gun, and one that's capable of shattering every major city in the East on a few hours' notice. How effective could you make it--if you had to?”

The Secretary frowned doubtfully and tugged at his ear. ”Well, John, our strategic command has kept a running plan in effect, revising it to allow for every tidbit of information we can get. Planning continental blitzes is a favorite past-time around high-level strategic commands; it keeps the boys in trim. A plan could probably be agreed upon in a very short time, but its nature would depend on your earliest deadline date.”

”Two dates,” grunted the tragedy-mask. ”The first is Seventhday, Fried Pie Week. I want a maximum possible effort readied by then, with a plan that allows for a possible stand-by at that date, and a continued build-up to a greater maximum--to be reached when the satellite station is in s.p.a.ce and ready for battle. Include the station in the extended plan.”

”This is a very dangerous business, John.”

The mask whirled. ”Do you presume to--?”

”No, Sir. The strike-effort will be prepared as soon as possible.” He bowed slightly, then left the presidential study-vault.

Smith turned to gaze at his Stand-ins. ”You will go,” he said, ”all of you, to the examining authorities for the standard loyalty tests and psych-phys rechecks.”

The nine masked figures glanced at one another in surprise, then nodded.

There were no protests. The following day he had only seven Stand-ins; Four and Eight had been trapped in a burning building on the outskirts of the rabble city, and their remains had not been found.

Smith kept a tight cork on his rage, but it seethed inside him and threatened to burn through as the time approached to speak again with Ivan Ivanovitch IX. The enemy's infiltration into the very ranks of the Presidency robbed him even of dignity. Furthermore, now that the two scoundrels were uncovered, and dead, he remembered a very unpleasant but significant fact: he had, even before his ”election” by the rabble, discussed the televiewphone conferences with the Primaries. The idea of contacting Ivan had started, as most ideas start, from some small seed or other that could scarcely be remembered, some off-hand reference to the costly aspects of the Big Silence perhaps, and it had grown into the plan for contact. _But how_ had the idea first come to him? Had one of the guilty Stand-ins perhaps planted the seed in his mind? _After_ he proposed it, they had seemed demurring at first, but not too long.

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