With incidents such as these, plus many more too numerous to mention, defining my relationship with computers, is it any wonder I lack faith in them? Is it any wonder I was appalled at the prospect of having one of thern —superbrain though it might be— decide if I was to live or die? Is it any wonder I brooded all through the ’copter flight from Darnell to Seattle?
It was getting on toward dawn when the ’copter landed atop a tall office building in downtown Seattle. Our four captors hustled Liberty and me across the rooftop to the entrance to a stairwell. We descended one flight of stairs and boarded a waiting elevator. It dropped us down to a subbasement.
We were ushered along a narrow hallway between walls of powder-white concrete blocks. At the end was a steel door. We paused here while Knife pushed a buzzer. There was an answering click, and the door swung open. We entered; it closed and locked behind us.
The room was unexpectedly plush. The walls were wood-paneled. Heavy draperies and some really good impressionist lithographs lent them warmth. Hand-crafted glassware glittered on a bar set into the bookshelves. The desk was walnut, large, and kidney-shaped. An executive model pushbutton telephone perched atop
Behind the desk sat a man puffing evenly on a pipe. The tweed suit he wore could have defined an English country squire. He was gray-haired and florid, deepening the impression, and there were smile lines in his square-cut face, creases of good humor and joviality.
“Hello. I’m Gino Goldberg.” He greeted us pleasantly.
The name rang a bell. I knew I’d heard it before. Then I remembered where.
Randy Beaver had mentioned it as one of the trio who used to call Tom Swift and leave numbers for him to call back. “Phoebe Phreeby,” “Bugs Ameche,” “Gino Goldberg”—those were the three names Randy had mentioned. Funny! Figuring one of them might lead me to Tom Swift, I’d been concentrating on finding Phoebe Phreeby. And here I was, without even trying, face to face with Gino Goldberg!
“No need to introduce yourselves,” Goldberg continued. “I know who you are. Indeed, I’ve learned quite a bit about the two of you during the last couple of hours. It’s made me look forward to our having a chat. But first I’m going to step out for a moment while these gentlemen perform certain unpleasant tasks. I apologize for the nature of these tasks, but they are necessary.” He pressed a button, and when the door swung open again, he exited, beckoning to Rifle to follow.
Rifle was gone only a moment. When he returned, the door once again locked behind him. “Take off all your clothes,” he told us.
“Why?” Liberty asked indignantly.
“Do like he says, or I’ll take ’em off for you!” Strangler advanced on her menacingly.
We took off our clothes -- all of them. Knife collected them and tied them in a neat bundle. Then Rifle told us to sit on a couple of straight-backed chairs facing each other and gave the other three explicit instructions as to how Goldberg wanted us tied to them.
Our legs were spread wide apart so that the ankles could be manacled to the rear legs of the straight- backed chairs. Our wrists were handcuffed tightly together behind the chair backs. Strangler looped a pair of cords around our necks and anchored them to the rear rungs under the chair seats. That way if we tried to wriggle free, we’d choke ourselves.
Their task completed, the four hoods exited. A moment later Gino Goldberg returned. They say the essence of good manners in Yorkshire society is taking no cognizance of the other fellow’s inferior station. That was Gino Goldberg’s attitude. He ignored our shackled situation, our nudity, the somewhat gross genital display forced on us by the wide spreading of our manacled limbs. But I was damned if I was going to let his politeness go by without comment.
“What’s the big idea?” I demanded. “Why did you have us stripped? And how come all this Fu Manchu10 business with chains and handcuffs and ropes around our necks? If you’re going to have us killed, why all the fancy rigmarole?”
“Are you going to have us killed?” Liberty voiced the top-priority question.
“To answer the lady’s question first,” Goldberg said, “I don’t know yet. But I understand your impatience. Let me see if I can find out if a decision has been reached.” He picked up the receiver of the pushbutton phone on the desk and dialed by punching the but- tons. The call went through instantly. “Gino Goldberg here,” he said into the mouthpiece. He listened for a long moment, said, “I’ll call back,” and hung up. “The computer hasn’t replied yet,” he told us.
“I thought it was supposed to be so goddamn fast!" “Evidently the factors it must weigh are complex beyond our comprehension.” Goldberg puffed complacently on his pipe. “I apologize for the imposition of nudity,” he said. “Particularly to you, Miss Dix.”
“Don’t bother. I’m not ashamed of my body.”
“Your clothing had to be removed because of the laundry marks,” Goldberg explained. “It will be disposed of separately. In case the cornputer’s decision is negative, we can’t afford to leave any clues as to your identity.”
“What about fingerprints?” I wondered.
“Measures have been taken to ensure that there won’t be enough of you left to provide any sort of identification—-including fingerprints.”
That was a cheery note! “Just how . . . ?” I left the question hanging.
“An excessive amount of explosives has been planted in this room, as well as in other strategic locations throughout the basement of the building. Enough to destroy the foundation and bring down the building itself. Should the decision go against you, then you two will be here when the explosion occurs. You wil1—- quite literally—be blown to smithereens. There will be nothing left of your persons, and no signs of the shackles holding you.”
“What about these irons and the nooses? Aren’t you overdoing it?”
“Not at all. You see, you’ll be alone here when the explosion occurs. Precautions had to be taken so that you don’t take advantage of the lack of supervision and try to escape.”
“Now, why would we do a thing like that? After all, we want to cooperate,” I told him sarcastically.
“Is it some kind of time bomb then?” Liberty asked.
“No. The bomb will be detonated by me after I leave the building. I shall simply dial the number of this phone”—Goldberg patted the pushbutton executive telephone sitting on the desk—“from a safe distance, of course, and the ring will trigger the explosion.”
“Ingenious. But why go to all that trouble? Why blow up a whole building just to kill us?”
“The building will be blown up anyway. Even if it’s decided that you’re to live. If not, then it’s simply a matter—if you’ll pardon the expression -- of killing two birds with one stone.”
“I don’t suppose you’d like to explain the reason for destroying the building.”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Victor, my instructions are to do precisely that. As I understand it, time is of the essence to everyone concerned. For that reason, and on the assumption that if you’re allowed to live your continued efforts may work to the benefit of our organization, I’ve been instructed to impart to you certain information that may be of help to you in those efforts.”
“And if I’m not allowed to live?”
“Then the information will be of no use to you, while your knowledge can be of no possible harm to us, since you’ll be dead.”
“Seems fair enough.”
“The hell it does!” Liberty’s naked ebony breasts quivered with indignation.
“Perhaps not.” Gino Goldberg shrugged. He sat back in the swivel chair behind the kidney-shaped desk and puffed his pipe. Calmly he began relating the facts it had been decided I was to be told.