Mission: Earth "The Enemy Within" (31 page)

I went in to the sitting room with my baggage so she could lock the door. After all, she must be tired after all that travel and shopping. I had arrived!

I could get to work!

The ease with which you can get to see a United States Senator is mind boggling. You just tell his secretary that you are the head of a local labor union from his home state and bango, there you are in his presence!

I was no longer garbed as a sheik, of course. I looked far more Sicilian in my tight and modish three-piece suit and dark slouch hat, even though I would be a pretty big Sicilian.

Senator Twiddle sat at his desk, flanked on one side by the American flag and on the other by that of his home state, New Jersey. He was the very picture of a noble politician—blond, swept-back hair, a patrician if somewhat alcoholized countenance, upright of bearing and deep and resonant of voice. A man in whom you could have confidence. He was the Mafia contact given us by Gunsalmo Silva. He was also Rockecenter's man.

"Sit down, sit down," he said. "And what can we do for you? Always glad to meet men from the unions."

"Senator," I said, taking a chair and refusing the cigar that would gas me flat, "what would you say if I told you that the Rockecenter oil interests—in fact, all of Octopus—was in dire peril of competition?"

"Aha!" he said. "I'd get right on that phone and call his attorneys!"

"Well, Senator," I said, "it's too delicate to go on the phone, monitored as they are. And even a bit too delicate to put to his attorneys."

"You mean you want to talk to the man himself?" He was stunned.

He fiddled with his cigar. He put it down. He opened a drawer and got out a pint of Jack Daniels. He took a bottle of sparkling water that is furnished the Senate free by the company. He poured two drinks. I pretended to drink at mine. He tossed his off.

He sat back, "Young fellow, I like your looks. It's obvious you don't know danger when you see it. And it's obvious that you don't know the man in question. Not that he would ever be in question, understand, so don't quote me."

He scrubbed his chin with a puffy hand. He tipped out another drink to sip. He sat back. "Young fellow, I like your looks. And any favor to Rockecenter is a favor to me. You understand? Don't quote me."

I nodded.

"You know any part of that family?" he asked. I shook my head. "Well, educating the young is a sacred mission of the experienced. I vote affirmative on all education bills. And on all union-sponsored bills," he added hastily. "And there are some things that aren't in the Rockecenter account in Who's Who. If you don't know them, you won't get anywhere with Delbert John Rockecenter. But don't quote me.

"Off the record, that family goes way back. They were emigrants from Germany in the 1800s. The right name is Roachengender. The family founder in this country sold crude oil as a quack cancer cure and was a wanted criminal for rape. Don't quote me. I'll deny everything. And you've got too frank a face to be from the FBI.

"The family proceeded to go downhill while their finances went uphill. The first generation in America changed its name to Rockecenter and expanded into crude oil and, with the advent of the automobile, got a monopoly on the nation's petroleum. Congress itself tried to break up that monopoly in 1911 but it just dodged.

"The next generation controlled oil and drug companies. The third generation controlled oil and drugs and politics. The fourth generation started to go to pieces.

"Now usually, great fortunes only last three generations. The socialists have seen to that, mostly. But the wealth of the Rockecenters was so great it went into the fourth generation. But it was wobbly. Politically, it stumbled. The third generation only got to the vice-presidency but the fourth generation appeared to fade even below that.

"Then out of this fourth generation and onto the world stage stepped Delbert John Rockecenter. A dark horse. A candidate nobody even noticed until they were buried in landslides! He apparently had read up and followed all the principles of the original American Rockecenter. And I quote: 'Be moderate. Be very moderate.

Don't let good fellowship get the least hold on you.' Another is 'Trust nobody!'

"In short, young gentleman, he resurrected the basic Rockecenter policies. Gouge everybody. Don't tolerate competition of any kind. Do everybody down including your own family. Don't quote me. This is off the record.

"That Delbert John grabbed all the holdings of all the other Rockecenters and lumped them up again in one huge pile. He even had his Aunt Timantha murdered to get her inheritance. He mended all the ropes they had ever had on anything—banks, governments, fuel, drugs, you name it. And he took those ropes into his own hands. Alone and personal. Single. Never married. Not about to. Why should he when the whole world is his to (bleep)!

"Now, you may think he's old to look at him. But don't let that fool you. He's a powerhouse of cunning! He's the most rapacious (bleepard) I have ever met. He is as crooked as a corkscrew. He has my undying support!"

He finished off his drink. He sat forward. "And that's the man you're asking to see personally." He shook his head. "Not even heads of state get to see Delbert John Rockecenter when they want." He sat back and smiled a politician's smile, totally false. "And so, you tell me all about it and I'll tell his attorneys."

"Well, sir," I said. "I can talk to his attorneys myself. A Mafia chief assured me that you could help."

Oh, that shot told. I had hoped I wouldn't have to use it. In a sort of haggard way, he said, "The unions and the Mafia. I should have known. Are you sure this is in the Rockecenter interests?"

"A new cheap fuel that threatens his monopoly is of great interest," I said. "I'm only trying to help."

"All right," he glanced at the note which his secretary had made and which bore the name I had I.D. for at the moment, "All right, Inkswitch. What do you want?"

"Credentials as a Senate Investigator," I said. "Full, complete and bona fide. He'll see me." Then I added the clincher. "Off the record, you can take the pay for yourself."

His face brightened. "Aha! You'll go far, Inkswitch. I head the Senate Energy Crisis Committee. I do favors for him all the time, keeping down excess supplies of fuel. He'll see my name and know I'm in there pitching for the old Rockecenter interests come next election time! A new cheap fuel, eh? Well, that is a crisis!" And he promptly wrote the order to issue me what I needed.

I was glad to see somebody else writing orders for a change.

We parted the firmest of friends.

And two hours later I had all the I.D. anyone could ask for, a Senate Investigator, including the right to bully any official in the land and even the right to carry and shoot a gun—limited only by an oath not to shoot any Senators.

Heller, I said to myself, your chin is almost under. All you need is one firm push to grease your hair with boiling oil.

Now all I had to do was pry Utanc out of Washington.

After two days, when Utanc showed no signs of moving on, I resorted to a masterstroke. Using Washington cabs, I tailed her limousine. It was easy to do: I would jump in a cab and flash my credentials as a Senate Investigator and say, "Follow that limousine!" and the cabby would say, "Oh, you God (bleeped) Feds!" and follow the limousine.

I got to see quite a bit of Washington. I several times passed the huge advertising sign that dominates Pennsylvania Avenue:

J. EDGAR HOOVER

I decided not to buy any. But I did toy with the idea of going in and finding Stupewitz and Maulin and telling them, as one Federal to another, how Heller had tricked them, but as sneering laughter might arouse professional jealousy—leading to their shooting Senator Twiddle and leaving me without credentials—I forbore.

Utanc was covering museums and things. She was easy to spot, she was so well dressed and chic.

In late afternoon I found the limousine stopped in Potomac Park. It was almost in the exact place where Heller had been grabbed. I even recognized the mounted park patrolman as the same one who had spotted him. Seemed like old times.

A brief scout found Utanc. She was standing on the steps of the Lincoln Memorial. She had her finger in her mouth and was looking east toward the great, tall obelisk of the Washington Monument. The leaves of fall were already blowing around and the wind was on the surface of the long mirror pool so the monument didn't reflect in it. At this time of year it really wasn't even a very scenic scene. I couldn't imagine why she was just standing there, looking at the monument. Nothing much to see. Just a white shaft.

I was fifty feet away from her, dressed in clothes she had never seen me in. My tailing had been very secret. She gave a shuddering sigh. She took her finger out of her mouth and turned to me and said, "Isn't it beautiful, Sultan Bey?"

I walked over to her. I might as well, now that she had spotted me. My curiosity was aroused. "What's so beautiful about it?"

"So tall, so white, so hard" She put her finger in her mouth and looked at it again.

Inspiration! I said, "That's only 550 feet high. In New York City, the Empire State Building is 1,472 feet high, close to three times as tall!" "It is?" she said, incredulous. "Indeed, it is," I said. "It even has a spike on top." And we left that very night for New York City. It takes real genius to operate in the Apparatus!

We checked into the Bentley Bucks Deluxe Hotel, the penthouse. In the 50s, it had a clear-shot view of the Empire State Building to the south and Central Park to the north. But that wasn't what was good about it: it had two bedrooms! Marvelous! I could sleep on an actual bed, not a living-room sofa! And this was especially good, as I expected we would be here for quite a while. My luck was already good and now it was improving! Bright and early the following morning, all refreshed and with no crick in my back, I had breakfast and, as soon as the numerous waiters and maids had cleared out, unlimbered my receiver and viewer. Before I went into action, I had better have a good look at what (bleeping) progress Heller had made lately.

Flare out!

Maybe my equipment had been damaged in transit. I checked the various indicators. It seemed to be all right.

Then I realized what was wrong. The 831 Relayer was coupled to the activator-receiver! It was boosting the signal so it could be seen thousands of miles away. Until it was turned off, I would get no views in this area!

Where had Raht and Terb said they had put it? Aha! On the TV mast of the Empire State Building. I walked out on the terrace and looked south. I was in straight view of it.

Well! Nothing easier. I would get it turned off.

I phoned the New York office.

It rang and rang. No answer. Then I remembered Faht Bey's complaint that they were all out chasing criminal prospects.

Gods. One had to do everything himself. I dressed in ordinary street clothes, puzzled over the subway system, and took a cab.

We were only a score or so of blocks north of the Empire State Building, and in no time at all I entered through the 34th Street entrance, bought my observatory ticket and went flying up to the 80th floor. The elevator takes less than a minute and I left my stomach on the first floor!

Nevertheless, as it was all in line of duty and one must never quail at that, I took the second elevator to the 86th floor observatory.

Without thinking, I actually walked out on the public platform. There is a ten-foot fence around it to keep people from using it for casual suicides, but this doesn't block any views. Although I might have been able to look all around for fifty miles—it was a clear autumn day, relatively speaking, for New York—I hastily backed inside again to the snack bar and nervously had a Coke. This place was HIGH!

Cokes apparently don't calm your nerves. You'd need a telescope to see the people on the street below from that platform.

Where was the (bleeped) TV antenna? A guide said, "Oh, that's the upper platform. The circular observatory on the 102nd floor." He pointed up.

"The 102nd floor?" I wailed.

"Oh, it's perfectly safe. Glass enclosed."

Duty, remorseless duty, called.

So up I went to the 102nd floor.

Well, to be brief, that isn't the top. There's another 222 feet on top of it! The literature said they built it to be a dirigible mast but never used it after one near-fatal attempt. And now it was a TV antenna.

The activator-receiver and 831 Relayer were up there somewhere!

There was glass all around me. Yes, I could see for fifty miles. And I could also see 1,250 feet DOWN!

There was a trap in the ceiling.

I began to shake. I hate heights. I knew in my soul that trying to get up there wouldn't result in a near-fatal attempt. It would be TOTALLY fatal!

I controlled my vertigo enough to get into the elevator. And though I had protested the speed of those three consecutive elevators going up, I blessed it going down!

When I arrived once more on 34th Street, I bent over and reverently patted the sidewalk!

Silly situation. Thousands of miles away, in Turkey,

I could track Heller easily. Now here he was, only a few hundred feet up in that same building and I couldn't track him at all! (Bleep) Spurk!

Raht and Terb!

I did know where they must be—the Silverwater Memorial Hospital over on Roosevelt Island. But I did not know what names they were registered under.

I couldn't figure out the subway system on how to get there. I took a cab.

Only because I knew their approximate date of entry and the state they had been in was I able to run them down in the wards "as a caring friend."

And there they were. Ambulant! They weren't even in bed! They were sitting by themselves in a patients lounge, watching TV! The nerve of them. I knew they had done all that just to get a vacation at Voltar government expense!