Thin Air (33 page)

"Naturally," said Smitty. "And what will you be doing?"

"Waiting for Mr. Bloch. You might point him out to me."

"He's not here yet."

Hammond shrugged but remained where he was. After five minutes of waiting, he glanced around and noticed that most of the Arabs had moved into the party, but two of them had stationed themselves near a potted fern.

Suddenly, the door swung open and the oil men emerged in twos and threes, looking casual as hell. The Arabs stared intently at each face, as if trying to sense what was going on.

The last man out was tall, cadaverous, and sixtyish, with a jaundiced complexion. He had an imperial manner and a fast smile for the dozens of guests who immediately descended on him.

It had to be Bloch. Hammond was sure long before Smitty returned with the Gaults and Jan, picking him up to take him over to where the host was holding court.

"Francis!" Smitty boomed, cutting through a knot of well-wishers. The way opened for him the instant Bloch responded with a big, warm smile. The smile stayed there, fixed and generous, until Smitty introduced Hammond.

Then it clicked down about four notches.

Dinner was sumptuous, luxurious, and stately, but Hammond was perturbed to find that last-minute seating arrangements placed him and Jan opposite Coogan, at actable far from Bloch, and even farther from his companions.

The dining room was as enormous as the ballroom, draped with heavy curtains over French windows. The chandeliers seemed to enhance the gleam of pleasure in Jan's eyes. The room was arranged in a succession of small round tables, each seating six. Coogan, Hammond, and Jan were at a table with three Arabs, directly in front of a window. Hammond was uncomfortably aware of being the perfect target for an assassin waiting on the street outside. Coogan seemed to relish his discomfort.

During dinner, Hammond stole glances at Bloch, sitting across the room with several grim-looking businessmen. He was animated; they were listless. Hammond recognized two of them as oil men he had seen coming out of that hallway earlier.

He continued watching Bloch, but his attention was drawn back to his own table by Coogan's deep, raspy voice telling Jan how lovely she was. Hammond smiled to himself.

Jan handled Coogan expertly, encouraging the compliments and, casually flirting. But when one of the Arabs inquired as to Hammond's job in the Navy, Coogan got down to brass tacks:

"Commander Hammond is a super-secret agent of the Naval Investigative Service," he said, "sort of a waterlogged James Bond."

The Arabs nodded and laughed. "Is this true?" one of them asked Hammond. He shrugged flatly.

"Of course it's true," said Coogan. "And who are you investigating tonight, Commander?"

"Nobody."

"Oh, I can hardly believe that, I can't think of any other reason why an agent of the NIS would be invited to a Washington soiree. Perhaps you're investigating these gentlemen!"

He waved at the Arabs. Hammond looked up at them. Their smiles vanished.

"Come on, Hammond," laughed Coogan. "Tell all!"

Hammond smiled at the Arabs. "You can relax, boys, I'm here to investigate Mr. Bloch's chopped liver."

Coogan roared and the Arabs joined him, relieved.

Hammond gazed out the window intently.

After dinner, Jan went off to the powder room and Hammond got up to follow Coogan, who turned back with a grin. "I'm in not going anywhere special, Hammond. You really don't have to tag along."

"I like dogging your footsteps. Maybe you'll trip and I can catch you."

"Your girl friend is a knockout, Hammond."

"You know who she is: Harold Fletcher's wife."

Coogan smiled broadly. "You mean widow," he said.

Hammond stopped in his tracks, his brow darkening. Coogan turned back to him, hands stuffed in his trouser pockets. "If I had a girl friend like that," he added, "I wouldn't keep her in Washington. The dangers of mugging."
 

"How would you know that since you spend all your time in California?"

"I've been told."

Hammond stepped away, knowing Coogan would follow him now, eager to continue the taunts. And Coogan did without hesitating a moment, not realizing until too late that Hammond was maneuvering them toward Bloch.

At the last moment, Coogan reached for Hammond's arm but found it jerked from his grasp. Hammond walked right up to Bloch among a group of businessmen and Arabs.

"Mr. Bloch," he said, "I'd like to compliment you on your Chief of Security." Hammond slurred a bit, playing tipsy.

Bloch's eyes flicked to Coogan, who stood anxiously a few feet away. "Mr. Coogan works for MTL," he said quietly;

"Yes, I know. I visited your plant out in Manhattan Beach. I was very impressed; I'm impressed by everything I learn about Micro-Tech."

"Are you doing research on us, Commander?" The cold smile edged into place. The Arabs looked on with interest.

"Research?" repeated Hammond. "Yes, you might say that. For instance, I've discovered that MTL handles a lot of government contracts—a few small jobs and a lot of big impressive ones." The Arabs looked away, but their ears became antennae. "I find it curious that a certain Navy project requires astonishing amounts of government funding while the others seem so damned self-sufficient Why is that?"

"The Navy project involves more experimentation. Especially since it's not into production yet—"

"What's the nature of it?"

"Really, Commander. If you don't already know, then it's none of your affair."

Hammond smiled and said, "Oh, I know what it's supposed to be, but I've been wondering if it's really something else."

Bloch gave him a wintry smile and a muttered excuse, then moved off with his Arab guests. Hammond found himself the object of curious study by those around him who had overheard the conversation. He looked for Coogan, but the big man was gone. He spotted Jan outside the powder room in discussion with Mrs. Gault. Smitty and the admiral were occupied with several friends.

Hammond decided to do some exploring. He slipped out to the foyer and snatched a brandy from a passing waiter. He loosened the collar of his uniform and waited until none of the suspicious types were watching him, then casually wandered up the winding staircase. He held his breath all the way to the first landing, knowing that if he made it that far, it was unlikely he would be spotted by anyone below.

He stepped onto the landing and looked both ways. Then he glanced down at the foyer. No one had seen him. With his pronounced shuffle and the brandy held loosely in his hand, he looked like a drunk in search of the bathroom.

He wandered down the second-floor hallway and peered into every open room, finding little of interest—except for the sitting room in which he discovered a glittering couple staring at each other with smoky eyes; they didn't see him.

Back to the landing again, then up the next flight of stairs. On the third floor, Hammond was a bit more cautious. It would be tougher to explain if he were caught up here.

Most of the doors were closed. And the goddamned floor creaked. Hammond cursed the old house, but he began letting himself through the doors, one by one. They were all expansive bedrooms, superbly decorated. Even the slim shaft of light thrown from the hall made clear their opulence. Fortunately, none of the rooms were occupied.

In the third bedroom he entered there was a light on across the room, a silvery beam coming from what looked to be a bathroom door, slightly ajar. Hammond hesitated a long moment at the bedroom door, his ears straining to catch any hint of breathing.

There was none.

He entered the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He waited with his back to the door, softly whistling to himself and playing his drunk act, while his eyes became accustomed to the gloom. There didn't appear to be anyone waiting for him. It was a room fit for a king, with a bed the size of a swimming pool, enormous fluffy pillows, mirrors on the ceiling....

He walked slowly across to the bathroom.

Pausing at the door, he peered cautiously inside. As bathrooms go, this was particularly spacious—and gilt, tiled, and carpeted. It was also a mess, with face towels and washcloths flung about, traces of hair, soap, and powder on the counter...and an open shaving kit on the sink, alligator leather with the initials "FPB" in gold script.

So there was no doubt that this was Bloch's bathroom. He went in and set his brandy down on the counter. Spanish tile, he noted, beautifully fitted, too. He moved to the toilet. As long as he was here...

Then he noticed the groove worn in the carpet in front of the shower, as if something had been dragged across it in an arc. Hammond stared at it a moment; it was a curious imperfection in such a lavish house. His eyes traveled up to the large shower stall standing against the wall. Against it, not set into it; it had the obvious appearance of an afterthought. The door was one one side and the shower faucets against the opposite wall. Peculiar.

Hammond opened the shower door and peered inside. It was dry as a bone. Not a drop of moisture, not even the odor of recent use. Hammond reached for the hot-water tap and turned it. Nothing happened. The flow was turned off.

He stepped back out of the shower, puzzled. He glanced at the bathtub. It was a large sunken affair, and halfway up the wall were shower taps. If Bloch took showers in that, what did he need this stall for?

Hammond hunkered down and examined the groove in the carpet, which lined up with one corner of the stall. It looked as if the entire stall could swing out on that arc. He got up and braced his hands against two corners of the stall and tried to move it in the direction of the groove. It didn't budge. There had to be an operating mechanism, a release trigger. He looked around for a lever, a switch—anything. There was a panel of wall switches by the bathroom door. He moved to it and tried them individually. There was one for the heater, one for the fan, one for the light. The fourth didn't appear to operate anything. He left it in the "on" position, then again tried to move the shower stall.

This time it came away and swung across the carpet, scraping into the groove—and exposing a small vault behind it.

As the stall swung fully open, a light blinked on in the vault, a low-wattage darkroom safety light. Hammond could see that in the center of a six-foot-square space stood a low metallic pedestal, apparently containing some sort of instrumentation.

Cautiously, he stepped into the vault.

19

The walls were hare and painted with a dull black finish. Hammond stood over the pedestal for a full minute, leaning first one way then the other, scrutinizing it. The pedestal stood three feet high. It was circular and about fifteen inches in diameter. It resembled a surround-speaker
system
and appeared to be an anodized aluminum sheath with vents. Hammond squatted and peered through the blades. The sheath was packed inside with conduits and copper coils wrapped tightly around a long piece of white metal.

He sat down on the floor and in the feeble light peered upward through the vent. There were two coils, one behind the other, connected at the top by a thick metal core that curved in an arc between them. The core was bisected by a rod that ran down between the coils and permitted them to spin on an axis. Hammond guessed the apparatus was some sort of powerful electromagnet that could whirl on a fulcrum and radiate its power outwards, probably to the limits of the vault.

He knew immediately what it was: a refinement of Emil Kurtnauer's field generator, the electromagnetic couplers that Rinehart had described. The power generator was probably located lower in the pedestal. He tried to get a look at it but the blades were slanted down and outward, making it impossible. He wondered if there were a way to open the apparatus. He duck-walked around it and found that it was anchored to the floor by three bolts—and he didn't have a wrench.
 

No matter. He knew what was there. The specifics weren't important. It was what the machine
did...

It made people invisible.

The realization caught up with him in a surge of ugly black fright. He wanted out. What if someone was waiting for him in the bedroom, invisible...? What if they closed the vault door on him, turned the thing on and made him disappear...?

He backed toward the entrance, dreading the telltale click that would indicate the generator was starting....

He stepped out safely and only then let out his breath. He stood with his back to the open shower stall and looked around the empty bathroom. There wasn't a sound. Nothing moved. He couldn't even hear the party sounds three floors below. He tried to convince himself not to be frightened. Then he gazed back into the vault at the pedestal standing on that black floor like a futuristic barstool.

Somewhere in this room there had to be controls. Not in the vault: he was certain those walls were solid. He began to search the bathroom, pulling out drawers, rummaging in the linen closet....

He opened the medicine chest and found only the usual array of pills and grooming aids. He slid the door closed and was about to move on when he noticed the hinges....