Part 2 (2/2)

I didn't have to answer that. The door banged open and Melrose, the LC, came in. He jerked a look at both of us, b.u.t.ted a cigarette he'd just lit--lighted another, b.u.t.ted that. He ran a hand through thick graying hair and frowned.

”Anybody got a cigarette?” he said sourly. ”Couldn't sleep last night.

This d.a.m.ned responsibility. Worried all night about something we hadn't thought of.”

Pop looked up. Melrose went on. ”Light--travels in a straight line, no?” He blinked small nervous eyes at us. Then, ”Can't go around corners unless it's helped, you see. I mean just this. The XXE-One is expected to hit a significant fraction of the speed of light once it gets beyond the atmosphere. Now here's the point--how in h.e.l.l do we control it then?”

He waited. I didn't say anything. Pop didn't say anything. Melrose ran a hand through his hair once more, muttered _G.o.ddamit_ to himself, turned around and went barging out the door.

Pop said wryly, ”Another quick memo to the Pentagon. He never heard of the Earth's gravity.”

”He's heard,” I said. ”It's just that it slipped his mind these last few years.”

Pop grinned. He handed me a sheaf of typewritten notes. ”These'll just about make it. You'll notice the initial flight is charted pretty d.a.m.n closely.”

”Thanks, Pop. I better take these, somewhere else to look 'em over.

Melrose might be back.”

”Pretty d.a.m.n closely,” he repeated. ”Almost as closely as if she was going up under radio control....” He stopped. He looked at me from under his eyebrows.

I studied him. ”Already told the bra.s.s I'd take her up, Pop.” I kept my voice down.

”Sure, guy. Sure. Uh--you mention it to Marge?”

”Last night.”

”I see.” His eyes got suddenly far away. I left him like that. h.e.l.l with him--h.e.l.l with the whole family!

It was in the evening paper, tucked in the second section. They treated it lightly. It seemed the night watchman had opened the rear door of the museum for a breath of air or maybe a smoke. Or maybe to kitchie-koo some babe under the chin in the alley.

That's the only way it could have happened. And he'd discovered the empty exhibit case at 2:10 in the morning. The case still had a little white card on it that told about the Brown Bess musket and the powder horn and the ball shot inside.

But the little white card lied in its teeth. There weren't any such things in the case at all. And he'd notified the curator at once.

There was also mention of a mysterious phone call which couldn't be traced.

Things like this don't happen in 1953. So I didn't get loaded that night. I went home, went to the davenport, sat down and told myself they don't happen. Things like this have never happened, will never happen. What occurred last night was something in the bottom of a bottle of Jamaica rum.

”Thinking, Mr. Anders?”

I took a slow breath. He was swaying gently in the air a foot from my elbow and he was still a black mucous sc.u.m, as he had been the night before. I got up.

I said, ”I'm not loaded tonight. I haven't had a thing all day.” I took two steps toward him.

He wasn't there.

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