Ralph closed the door and walked into the darkness on the office’s far side. He stepped into the glass cubicle and picked up the directory hanging by a chain below the telephone. I wonder if the FBI is open all night. He spread the book open, limp from constant use. Seems like they should be.
As he flipped through the tissue-pages, he looked up through the booth’s glass and froze. The row of parking spaces where he had left the jeep was visible from an oblique angle. Someone, a dark silhouette wearing a helmet, was leaning into the jeep and examining it. The motorcycle with the bullet-like black fairing could be seen, sleek and ominous under the streetlight.
Ralph ducked behind the metal bottom section of the booth. The telephone book dangled on its chain over his head. Slowly, he opened the folding door and peered out, his head close to the ground. The motorcyclist hadn’t spotted him yet. As he watched, another figure separated from the shadows and approached the one with the helmet.
They conferred for a moment, then started toward the motel office.
He crouched out of sight in the phone booth, waiting and listening to the tread of his two pursuers across the asphalt of the motel courtyard.
The office door opened, then closed. He crouched over and ran awkwardly to the parking spaces, scrambling into the jeep. The engine started with the first turn of the key, and in seconds he was on the street, accelerating and heading for the illuminated area of the city.
Jerk, he cursed himself as he drove. Just had to screw around and wait for them to catch up, didn’t you? He kept forgetting that in this universe there was no time, that everything was always later than he thought. Or too late. The jeep pressed on toward the surging neon.
The traffic was so thick in the main part of the city that he couldn’t see whether he was being followed or not. He pulled into a casino parking lot, beating out a wide Cadillac for the only vacant space, then got out and sprinted past the rows of empty cars that surrounded the empty building.
The noise and light inside reassured him. Somewhere out of sight, a band heavy with brass was playing, its sounds interspersed with the constant sound of people and money in motion. Words became altered and lost in a partly mechanical, partly human clatter. Ralph hurried through the lobby, beneath blazing tiered chandeliers and past slot machines with little flashing lights. Where, he thought with a combined desperation and irritation, do they keep the phones around here!
Across an expanse filled with more slot machines and people he spotted a booth. It was set against a wall that opened onto another gigantic room where people clustered around and stared into the depths of felt-lined tables. He hurried down the wide carpeted steps and started pushing his way through the nearest aisle.
A fat woman with blue hair and rhinestoned glasses—her small eyes glittered behind the lenses—stepped backwards into the aisle to watch the whirling symbols on the machine she was playing. She collided with Ralph as he tried to get past. A paper cup full of nickels dropped from her hand, and the coins scattered over his shoes and the carpeting. “Hey!” she shrilled at him. “Watch where you’re going!”
“Sorry,” he called over his shoulder. He brushed past two more women, who stared at him indignantly and held their own paper cups tightly to their breasts. Finally he broke free into the clear space in front of the telephone booth. When he got inside it he pulled the folding door shut and sank onto the little seat in relief. The casino noises filtered softly through the clear panes of the booth. He placed the telephone book on his lap and opened it, the thin paper clinging to his sweating hands.
There was no listing for the FBI. Bewildered, he flipped back and forth through the book, looking under “Federal.”
“Bureau,” and “Investigation” with no results. He scanned all the subheadings under “U.S. Government,” but still found nothing. What’s going on here? he wondered, feeling cold dismay gathering inside him.
Finally, he slid a dime into the phone and dialed Information. “May I help you?” cooed the mechanical-sounding voice in his ear.
“Do you have a number for the FBI?” he said. “The Federal Bureau of Investigation?”
The line hummed for a second. “That number is unlisted,” said the operator. “I can put you through to it, though.”
A flurry of beeping electronic sounds, then he heard the sound of another telephone ringing. It went on for a long time until someone answered. “FBI,” a man’s voice said casually. There were the faint sounds of chewing and swallowing, as though he were eating a sandwich.
Ralph took a deep breath before he spoke. “I want to report a plot. A criminal conspiracy. They’re—”
The voice on the other end of the line sighed. “I don’t think we can do anything for you, then. You’ve got the wrong people.”
“Huh? What do you mean?”
“It’s all right,” said the voice. “We still get—well, not a lot, but a few—calls from people who still think the Bureau handles that sort of thing. I guess most people don’t know that we’ve been re-organized.”
“Re-organized?” said Ralph, incredulous.
“Oh, yeah. It was a long process, but it began when the old Hoover papers finally came out of the archives several years ago. A lot of stuff the old boy had done didn’t look too good, and Congress stepped in and started changing things around. The bureau was pretty low in prestige right then—hadn’t solved any big kidnappings or anything for a long time.
“It really began with the Watergate thing. So now we mainly just keep records and send out pamphlets to high school classes. That sort of thing.”
“Hell,” muttered Ralph. He kneaded his forehead with one hand. “Well, who am I supposed to—”
“What you want,” interrupted the voice, “is the Federal Security Agency. They kind of took over the things we used to do. Somebody had to.”
“Oh. How do I get hold of them?”
“They’re in the book. Okay? They ought to be able to fix you up, whatever your problem is. They all carry guns and do the TV hero bit. Just like the bureau used to be.” The voice sounded wistful, caught in memories.
“Thanks,” said Ralph.
“Glad to help.”
He already had the telephone book open to the letter F when it struck him. The initials, he thought. FSA. His hand turned the pages by itself and found the listing for the Federal Security Agency. There was a tiny illustration of the agency’s emblem. It was the same as the shoulder patch that Muehlenfeldt’s guards had been wearing.
No way, thought Ralph, staring at the tiny letters and numbers in the book. There is no way I’m going to call them. Besides, what’s the point?
He suddenly felt like laughing. They’re already here looking for me.
The telephone book fell from his lap as he stood up and opened the booth’s folding door. He stepped out into the open space that bordered the floorful of slot machines and their players. A man was striding rapidly toward him from around the other side. Ralph caught sight of the other’s grim face and started in the opposite direction. He broke into a run and glanced over his shoulder to see the man running now as well, brushing a waitress with a tray of drinks against the wall.
The gamblers at the tables looked up curiously as Ralph sprinted past them. A bulky man wearing a uniform like a policeman—one of the casino guards—stepped into his way, but Ralph managed to duck under the outstretched arms. Behind him he heard his pursuer collide with the guard. He looked back as he ran and saw the two men fall entangled to the ground. The sound of a gunshot hit Ralph like an electric shock. There was a second of quiet as the unseen band stopped playing, then a woman’s scream mixed with the harsh clatter of an alarm bell.