Quellen turned on the stat field and shoved Mortensen through. The blond man vanished. He would wake up in the Crime-Sec’s African cottage. No doubt that would add to his general bafflement, but Quellen had not been able to offer explanations.
A moment later the stat was turned off at Quellen’s end.
That would keep Mortensen from getting back until Quellen was ready to bring him back.
Waves of vertigo swept through him.
He had the bait. Now he had to play his fish. It seemed incredible that he would succeed, but he had gone too far to permit himself to turn back. And, if he failed, he was beginning to see, there was an alternative way out, less honourable but possibly more rational a solution than what he had in mind.
Can I get away with this? he wondered. Can I actually try to blackmail the High Government and make it stick? Or am I simply out of my mind altogether?
He would find that out soon enough. Meanwhile, he had a hostage—Mortensen. A hostage against the wrath of the High Government.
Now, just one small thing remained: to get an interview with Peter Kloofman. Himself. In person. Could it be arranged? It was a staggering dream. How could a Class Seven bureaucrat gain admission to the presence of Kloofman?
He’ll see me, Quellen thought. When he learns that I’ve kidnapped Donald Mortensen.
Fifteen
David Giacomin, who had been carrying out some quiet monitoring of the Mortensen situation himself, was the first to discover that there was trouble. A flashing red light informed him that Mortensen had vanished from the reach of the Appalachia televector field.
Giacomin experienced a sensation of disorientation. The critical day for Mortensen was 4 May; and 4 May was still several weeks off. It wasn’t possible for him to have gone hopper so soon, was it?
Yes, it was possible, Giacomin reflected. But if he had, why hadn’t the fabric of space and time tottered? The past had been altered—or else the records had been in error in the first place. Giacomin ordered a full investigation into the Mortensen disappearance to be carried out, mobilizing every resource of the High Government. Kloofman had personally instructed Giacomin to see that nothing happened to Mortensen; and now it appeared as though something had indeed happened. The perspiring Giacomin reflected that he had damned well get Mortensen back before Kloofman found out he was missing.
Then, almost simultaneously, Giacomin learned that he was going to have to break the news to Kloofman after all.
A call came through from Koll in the Secretariat of Crime, the ratty-faced little Class Six through whom Giacomin supervised that wing of governmental activities. Koll looked upset, even dazed. His face was flushed and his eyes were fixed and glossy.
“I’ve got someone here who wants an interview with Kloofman,” Koll said. “A Class Seven—no, he’ll soon be Six—in my department.”
“He’s insane. Kloofman wouldn’t see him, and you know it, so why are you bothering me with this?”
“He says he’s kidnapped Mortensen, and he wants to discuss the situation with somebody in Class One.”
Giacomin stiffened. His hands began to move in spasmodic jerks, and he fought to get them under control. “Who is this maniac?”
“Quellen. He’s the CrimeSec here. He—”
“Yes, I know him. When did he make this request?”
“Ten minutes ago. First he tried to call Kloofman direct, but that didn’t work. So now he’s going through channels. He asked me and I’m asking you. What else can I do?”
“Nothing else, I suppose,” said Giacomin hollowly. His quick mind sifted the possible things that could be done to the troublesome Quellen, beginning with slow disembowelment and proceeding from there. But Quellen had Mortensen, or said he did. And Kloofman was practically psychotic on the subject of Mortensen. He talked of little else.
There went Giacomin’s carefully crafted plan to keep the news about Mortensen’s disappearance from getting to the top man. He saw no way of avoiding that now. He could stall for time, but in the end Quellen would have his way.
“Well?” Koll said. The tip of his nose quivered. “Can I remand his request officially to your level?”
“Yes,” Giacomin said. “I’ll take it off your hands. Let me talk to Quellen.”
A moment passed. Quellen appeared on the screen. He looked sane, Giacomin thought. A little frightened at his own audacity, no doubt, but generally rational. At least as rational as Koll, for that matter.
But determined. He wanted to see Kloofman. Yes, he had kidnapped Mortensen. No, he would not divulge the whereabouts of the kidnapped man. Moreover, any attempt to interfere with his freedom of action would result in the immediate death of Mortensen.
Was it a bluff? Giacomin didn’t dare take the chance. He looked at Quellen in quiet wonder and said, “All right. You win, you madman. I’ll pass your request for an audience along to Kloofman and we’ll see what he says.”
It was such a long time since Kloofman had consented to speak face to face with a member of the lower orders that he had nearly forgotten what the experience was like. He had some Class Threes and Fours and even Fives in attendance on him, of course, but they didn’t converse with him. They could just as well have been robots. Kloofman tolerated no chitchat from such people. High on the lonely eminence of Class One, the world leader had cut himself off from contact with the masses.
He awaited the arrival of this person Quellen, then, with some curiosity. Resentment, of course; he was not accustomed to coercion. Anger. Irritation. Yet Kloofman was amused, as well. The pleasure of vulnerability had been denied him for many years. He could take a light approach to this unexpected crisis.
He was also frightened. So far as the televector men could tell, Quellen actually did have possession of Mortensen. That was distressing. It was a direct threat to Kloofman’s power. He could not laugh at such a situation.
The subcranial probe murmured to Kloofman, “Quellen is here.”
“Let him in.”
The chamber wall rolled back. A lean, haggard-looking man walked awkwardly in and stood flatfooted before the huge pneumatic web in which Kloofman reposed. Between Kloofman and Quellen there rose a fine, almost imperceptible mist, an assassination screen extending from floor to ceiling. Any particle of solid matter attempting to cross that screen would be instantly volatilized, no matter what its mass or velocity. Robot wardens flanked Kloofman as an additional precaution. Kloofman waited patiently. The artificial systems within his reconstituted body purred smoothly, pumping blood through the vessels, bathing the inner meat with lymph. He saw that Quellen was uncomfortable in his presence. It scarcely surprised him.
At length Kloofman said, “You’ve had your wish. Here I am. What do you want?”
Quellen moved his lips, but there was a lag of several seconds before he produced words. “Do you know what I’m thinking?” he blurt d finally. “I’m glad you exist. That’s what I’m thinking. It’s relieving to know that you’re real.”
Kloofman managed to smile. “How do you know I’m real?”
“Because—” Quellen stopped. “All right. I retract that. I hope you’re real.” His hands were quivering at his sides.
Kloofman observed the man make a visible effort to pull himself together—an effort that seemed to be at least outwardly successful.
“Are you the man who kidnapped Mortensen?”
“Yes.”
“Where is he?”
“I can’t reveal that, sir. Not yet. I’ve got to propose a deal with you first.”