Assignment to Disaster (7 page)

"Sit down, Durell. Relax. Like something to eat?"

"I didn't expect to work out of here," Durell said.

"You don't. You're supposed to be on your own. But I guess McFee figured you needed some briefing. I don't like it a bit, I tell you. A thing like this needs organization, a lot of men working together. What can you hope to do alone?"

"I hope to find Calvin Padgett."

"Nuts. You'll only get in my hair."

"I'll try not to," said Durell.

"Well, I just don't like prima donnas," Larabee growled. He slapped a palm over his mouth and wiped his hand across the lower half of his face, pulling and distorting his flesh with his fingertips. He sighed deeply. "Sorry. I haven't had much sleep. We'll get along, Durell."

"You know that Padgett is still somewhere in the area?"

Larabee nodded. His face looked more like a bulldog's than ever as he jutted his jaw angrily. "The son-of-a-bitch. The screwed-up bastard. I'd like to ream him with a forty-five."

"How did he get away from you?"

"We found that out just a few hours ago. Through a drainage culvert. Of all the goddamn things. Down a manhole and crawling for two, three hundred yards, popping up like a gopher outside the wire and the radar. My own damned fault. I ought to be hanged."

Durell relaxed a little. "Any leads to where he might be hiding out?"

"Just one. He didn't go into town often, but he had a girl there. Or a woman friend, you might say. Cora Neville."

"Local girl?"

"Just the richest dame in ten states. You can't touch her, Durell. Don't try. We've got trouble enough without making her squawk. But she's staked out, too. Not a sign of Padgett. We searched her ranch and the whole damned motel. He wasn't there."

"What motel?" Durell asked.

"The Salamander. It's just north of town, and you never saw a place like it. Forty bucks a day, cigarettes a buck a pack, four bits for a Kleenex. Jaguars and Cadillacs and a lot of rich, spoiled, useless people taking the desert air, sobering up for the next round. She fits the place like a glove, that Cora Neville. Cal Padgett was right friendly with her."

Durell's face looked thin and sharp. "How did he get to know a woman like that?"

Larabee shrugged meaty shoulders. "Ah, who knows? She picked him up in one of the Cactus Street joints, probably just for kicks. These scientists are temperamental. They work along nice and quiet for a time, hypnotized by their own genius; then all of a sudden they're tired of the recreation we give 'em — bridge and billiards and chess. Cal didn't often go on a toot, but when he did, it was a beaut. We always had a man with him, of course, to see about drinking or talking too much. Policy said to let 'em relax, so we did. Only thing my boy couldn't do was get under the bed with them."

"I'll check into the Salamander tonight," Durell said.

Larabee shot him a hard, angry look. "He isn't there. I guarantee it. I went through the place as if I was looking for a two-headed louse. The Governor called me on it, I got calls from a Senator and two Congressmen in Washington. Seems I went too far and too fast with Miss Neville and she doesn't like her guests distressed. She says she doesn't know where Cal is and doesn't care. He was only a passing fancy. She was amused by his boyish earnestness, she said. But very annoyed with him now for causing her a little difficulty."

Seated, Durell felt the floor tremble and heard the vibration and shuddering of window glass. His eardrums felt odd. He looked up and saw Larabee watching, not grinning, but dimly amused.

"You're a tenderfoot, all right."

Durell still felt the sensation of concussion, deep in the pit of his stomach. "What was that?"

"My little babies never sleep. They're got to test their playthings. What you just felt, mister, was about a million bucks of the taxpayers' dough blown into the sky for fireworks."

"They fire at night, too?"

"With Dr. John, you never know. Come on, I guess you want to meet him."

They went downstairs to a jeep, drove along a street between barracks, turned left past a towering structure that made little sense to Durell, and drove about two miles into the chill desert before they came to a tall building with an observation tower like the control tower of an airport. An elevator took them up to the glassed-in room.

Dr. John Padgett was like a giant eagle, a big, bony man with hunched shoulders and a long-nosed face and loose limbs. He sat beside an assistant in a smock, watching numerous dials on a bank of recording instruments. There was a humming sound in the big room. On John Padgett's face there was a mark of intelligence and deep suffering. A rugged, roughly knobbed walking stick rested beside his chair, and when he stood up he leaned heavily on it as he shook hands with Durell.

"Yes, Mike told me you were coming." He had a deep, deliberate voice. "I regret it is my young brother who is causing all this trouble."

"Well, maybe you can help me," Durell said.

"I've done all I can. But if there is anything more…"

"I'd just like to know what kind of argument Calvin had with you about the work going on here," Durell said.

His shot went home. He saw the quick glance John Padgett exchanged with Larabee. Then the physicist shrugged, and his bony shoulders emphasized his resemblance to a hunched, bedraggled eagle.

"Calvin was distraught. He was impetuous. He felt that an error had been made in the calculations for our device and insisted on checking and rechecking. We did so. And there was no error."

"I take it you are certain of that," Durell said.

"It is my responsibility," John Padgett said quietly.

"I understand you considered Calvin as suffering from a nervous disorder of some kind. That right?"

"If you wish to speak to Dr. Crane about it…"

"You can tell me all I need to know," Durell said.

"Quite so. You know his history, of course — about the Investigating Committee and so forth. I could not bring myself to believe he harbored subversive notions. I took him under my personal parole, you might say. Perhaps it was a mistake. I dislike to think so, however, until every effort has been made to find Calvin. Our work here causes high mental strain among the staff, and a great deal of philosophical theorizing, you see. Calvin was growing steadily moodier, doubting the wisdom of our work. He was not alone in this, but others managed to keep their attitudes and fears under control. Calvin did not. He ran away. I am sure that when he is found, it will turn out to be no more than a gesture toward escape from reality."

John Padgett limped back to his instruments and studied them for a moment. Then he returned to Durell. His dark eyes burned with a fanatical light. "Whatever happens, nothing must interfere with the scheduled firing of Cyclops. It is my responsibility, above that of the military personnel here, above Mike Larabee's security forces, above everything except for certain people in Washington. I designed Cyclops, I helped to build it. It will succeed. It must succeed! I have put aside all personal feelings in regard to my brother. Whatever must be done about him I leave to your discretion. And now, if you will excuse me…"

Durell felt strangely disappointed. He did not know why he felt this way. Perhaps he was tired, he thought. This day had stretched out interminably. Then he looked up as Mike Larabee crossed the room, glanced at his watch, and tore a big sheet off a wall calendar.

It was past midnight. It was now the second day of July.

He had no real difficulty getting a room at the Salamander. Larabee had not exaggerated about the place. His room was a cottage, discreetly apart from the others. He stopped in Las Tiengas, which apparently knew no curfews, and rented a car, then bought a suitcase and some clothing in the shops on Cactus Street. Larabee did not come with him. Larabee made it plain he did not like the idea of Durell's working independently on the problem.

The town was built on fiats slightly north of the center of a forty-mile bowl rimmed by jagged buttes. Cactus Street was noisy, lined with bars, lurid with neon, swarming with military uniforms. Aloof from all this, like an oasis of plush luxury, was the Salamander.

There was a main building surrounded by stately palms and green lawns and oleanders. There was a huge swimming pool, where some people still sat about in robes at tables under umbrellas. There was a restaurant, a gambling room, tennis courts, squash courts, a private auditorium for motion pictures, several shops, sun decks. The Salamander was a world unto itself. Once here, the privileged guest need not stir or want for anything. The cottages ranged in irregular patterns among more palm trees and shrubbery, discreetly located along private paths. The clerk's desk in the lobby of the main building was like an upholstered doughnut, and the clerk went with the decor. His eyes at first dismissed Durell briefly.

"Sorry, sir, we have absolutely nothing without a prior reservation."

"I see," Durell said. "Then would you have a reservation scheduled for tomorrow evening in the name of Miss Deirdre Padgett?"

The clerk looked toward a winding, surrealistic staircase to a filigreed balcony above. A tall blonde woman was up there, talking to a dark-haired man in a dinner jacket. There were not many people in the lobby, but they all bore the same stamp: a deep tan, a haziness about the eyes from too much liquor and rich food, a poised and assured air of speaking and carriage. The clerk jerked his eyes back from the blonde woman above.

"Just a moment, sir. I'll see."

He slid out of the plush doughnut desk and walked up the airy staircase as if he wanted to run. He spoke to the blonde. She looked down at Durell. Her eyes were pale, either gray or blue, he could not tell which. Her oval face was darkly tanned, and her lipstick looked orange in the subdued lobby light. The handsome dark-haired man said something quickly and turned away. The blonde woman nodded to the desk clerk. Durell felt someone watching him and looked around and saw only a small, old Mexican in a red jacket and white trousers, a bellhop waiting for the new suitcase he had just purchased. He looked at the balcony again. The blonde, staggeringly beautiful, looked angry, like an annoyed goddess. The desk clerk all but tumbled down the filigreed staircase again.

"Yes, sir. I find we can accommodate you."

"Is that Miss Neville?"

"Why, yes, sir."

"You didn't answer my other question. About Miss Padgett."

"I'll check, sir."

"I thought you checked with Miss Neville."

The clerk was sweating, although the air in the lobby was pleasant and perfumed. "Just one moment."

When Durell looked up at the balcony, Cora Neville had vanished. The clerk consulted a file of extravagantly engraved cards, or pretended to consult them. Then he bobbed his head. "Yes, sir. A reservation exists for Miss Padgett, of Washington, D.C., for tomorrow. Is she a friend of yours, sir."

"Yes, indeed."

"Your cottage is number Twenty-three. I hope you will be comfortable."

Service at the Salamander was supplied by Mexicans, and the elderly bellhop, whose name was Miguel, took Durell's suitcase while a smart young man parked Durell's rented car and a liquid-eyed girl smiled and turned down the coverlet on his bed. He ordered ice and a bottle of bonded bourbon and a sandwich, and when all this had been quietly and quickly delivered, he took a hot shower and ate the sandwich and had a quick drink.

Yet he felt he was not alone.

He turned out the lights and adjusted the slats of the blinds and sat still in the darkness, smoking, finishing his second drink. His nerves felt stretched to the breaking point. Ahead, through the hours, there seemed to be nothing to do but wait.

He got up and went outside and stood in the cool desert air, in the deep shadow of the oleander bush beside the cottage door. There was nothing to see. The nearest cottage, of which only a corner was visible down the curving path, was in darkness. He walked around the small stuccoed building, looking at the dark shrubbery. Nobody was there.

But he was watched.

The bourbon had not helped. His nerves still hummed. He stretched out on the bed in the dark and tried to sleep. He could not sleep. Somewhere nearby was Calvin Padgett, alone as he was alone, maybe frightened, certainly confused. In his head, a knowledge of the stars in their courses, and a change in the heavens to be made within about forty hours. Not much time. Durell tossed and turned. He was here, but Deirdre was not here, and nothing could flush Padgett from his hiding place until the girl arrived.
If
she arrived. If she wasn't dead by now. He hoped she had sense enough to talk just enough to make them bring her out here. There was nothing he could do about it, though, except to wait. And hope.

Something occurred to him. He could take Larabee's word for it that Calvin Padgett was not hidden at the Salamander. Then how did Padgett expect to know when his sister arrived? She was due tomorrow — no, this evening. How would Padgett know about it? Durell sat up, his nerves suddenly tight. Somebody would have to tell Padgett, wherever he was hiding, that his sister had arrived. Assuming Deirdre had told him all of the truth, and there was nothing more prearranged between sister and brother. But you had to assume that. And if so, then someone here knew where Padgett was hiding. Someone here was watching the register, waiting for Deirdre to check in. Not just Larabee's men, either. One of the staff? Or Cora Neville? He felt impatient for daylight, for the day to begin, so that he could check. He wanted to meet Cora Neville. He wanted to look over the staff. All right. Somebody here knew where Calvin Padgett, the most wanted man in history, was hiding.

And somebody was watching him.

The feeling was so strong that again Durell got up and took his gun and stepped outside to circle the cottage. Nobody. Nothing. A dry breeze made the palm fronds rustle and clack. He went inside and turned on the lights and opened the closet doors and looked in the shower stall. No one. He went back to bed.