Thin Air (40 page)

Built into the wall behind the loading platform was a glassed-in control room. In the half-light emanating through the window, Hammond could make out shadowy figures working at instrument panels.

A diminishing glow from somewhere on the left wall of the shed drew his attention. Then he caught another one fading out overhead.

Pedestals. They were larger models of the ones he had seen in Bloch's vault and the
Sturman'
s engine room. There were four of them, one centered on each of the three insulated walls and one on the ceiling.

Hammond touched Yablonski's arm and pointed them out. "This shed is a colossal receiving station," he said. "The granddaddy of them all."

They were startled by a loud ratcheting sound from the dock to starboard. A gangplank swung out from the wall and was lowered on chains until it landed on the
Sturman's
deck with a reverberating crash. More lights came up on that side, and they saw the dockworkers coming aboard with their weapons at the ready.

Hammond counted only five of them. And he recognized two as the muggers he and Yablonski had fought outside the inn in Georgetown. He had the vague satisfaction of confirming his earlier guess: the gang was indeed small.

Then Joe Coogan walked up the gangplank and stepped aboard, dressed in a plain suit and a turtleneck sweater. His coat flap was open, exposing a pistol in a hip holster. Coogan stood beside the starboard ammunition box for a moment, then spoke to one of the armed dockworkers. The man nodded and went up the ladder to the bridge.

Coogan smiled benignly across the forward deck at Hammond and Yablonski, who were standing next to the port breakwater.

"Well...did you have a nice
flight?
"
he
asked with a small laugh.

Yablonski took a step forward, but Hammond touched his shoulder in restraint. Coogan approached them and peered at their faces.

"You don't look too bad, just a little shopworn. Will you accompany me to the captain's cabin?"

Hammond gave Yablonski a small nod, indicating they had no choice but to cooperate. Coogan sent them up the ladder to the bridge and then along the starboard side. The armed guard was waiting for them, posted outside the captain's door. Hammond wondered if Coogan knew about Sartog, the ghost of the navigating bridge. What if he appeared again? The guard opened the door and they entered a small, box-sized stateroom.

Sitting in the captain's chair was Dr. McCarthy.

He met Yablonski's stare with cold hostility. When Yablonski advanced on him, Coogan stepped between them.

"Sit down, gentlemen," he said. "No one's going to harm you. We're businessmen, not murderers." He smiled, expecting a retort, but Hammond said nothing. He sat on the bunk and Yablonski joined him. Coogan closed the door and said, "Well, Commander, were you impressed by your journey?"

"Possibly. Tell me where we are."

"Micro-Technology Laboratories, Plant Number Two, San Pedro, California."

"Okay, I'm impressed."

"Three thousand miles, Commander. We brought you clear across the country in less than ten seconds, though it may have seemed longer to you. Actually, it took more time to tie this ship to the dock than it did to get it here."

Hammond denied him the satisfaction of astonishment. "Those things on the walls outside," he said, "on the ceiling, in the engine room below, and in Bloch's bathroom—that's your mechanism?"

"Of course. And this...well, let me show you." He took off his jacket, rolled down the neck of his sweater and exposed a small button device strapped around his neck with insulated leads running down his back and across his shoulders. The harness traced a line down either side of his body. He turned so they could see it.

"If I want to move from here to the house in Georgetown, I call there and have the receiver coordinates set, then press this button whenever I'm ready to move, and poof! I'm there almost instantly. I can go anywhere I want if a receiver is pre-set to accommodate me."

"Sure cuts down on air fare."

"Doesn't it? Now, this adjustment is really interesting." He pulled up the bottom of his sweater to expose a small computer strapped to his side, a flat pancake of metal with a tiny keyboard. "I can move only myself or expand the field by punching out a diameter. I can teleport everything contained in the field with which I am in direct contact. This capability allows me to move objects of considerable size, such as—"

"A truck?" suggested Hammond. "Like the one you chased me with in New Mexico?"

"Like a truck, certainly. Or a destroyer..." He smiled and spread his hands to encompass the
Sturman.
"Except moving this ship required a modification of her special apparatus, which has been aboard for...oh, a couple of decades or so. Actually, this is the first time we've ever moved anything this size such a great distance. You've made history with us, Commander."

Hammond stared at his smile. He wanted to tear at it with his bare hands, but he couldn't move. He felt himself getting weak and woozy. Coogan came close enough to be grabbed, but Hammond could hardly lift a finger. Coogan peered into his eyes.
 

"Electro-narcosis," muttered McCarthy.

"Ah, yes," Coogan grunted. "This happens occasionally, Commander, to people who don't regularly travel by this method. It'll wear off in a while. Tell you what: why don't you and Mr. Yablonski ponder the implications of your status while the doctor and I go get you something to eat?"

Hammond saw Coogan's hand come out and approach his shoulder. For a second, he thought Coogan was going to strangle him; then he felt a finger poke him lightly on the collarbone. He fell backward, conscious but helpless.

Coogan laughed and opened the door. He went out with McCarthy, who slammed the door shut.

From his angle on the bunk, Hammond could see the shed lights reflected in the captain's porthole—a soft, comforting glow. He concentrated on it.

A few minutes later, he was able to sit up. The weakness faded and he glanced at Yablonski, who had apparently suffered the same reaction: he was breathing in short bursts, his hands clutching the bunk. They sat and observed each other for a long time, then Hammond said, "I hope McWilliams follows through."

"What good will that do?" grumbled Yablonski. "We vanished. As far as they're concerned, we're gone. How are they ever going to find us?"

Yablonski bent over and rubbed his head in his hands. Hammond tried to reassure him: "Look, if they intended bumping us off, they would have done it already, Let's just sit back and see what comes."

"It's not that," moaned Yablonski. "It's the aftereffects. I can't go through all that again!"

"It won't happen. They seem to have gotten the bugs out. Coogan and McCarthy use the process ail the time."

Yablonski made an attempt to believe it, but he was still not buying. "I'm telling you, they're messing with something that can backfire. It happened before."

Yablonski had nearly thirty years of horror associated with this business: he couldn't be expected to accept it.

The food arrived a half hour later, and with it, F.P. Bloch.

The guard entered first with a tray of sandwiches and beer. Another guard could be seen outside the door. Yablonski had been seated in the captain's chair when the door opened. He got up and backed away from the guard. Hammond lay on the bunk and didn't move, just watched. He had removed his useless shoulder holster.

He didn't even react with surprise when Bloch stepped in and closed the door. Bloch too used teleportation. And why not? His tall, cadaverous form was outlined in the half-light from, the single desk lamp as he surveyed his prisoners. Hammond took a long look at him, noting the face shaped like an inverted triangle, the blue Pierre Cardin suit, black alligator loafers, and dark burgundy tie. Bloch smelled of expensive cologne.

He swung the captain's chair back to front and straddled it, resting one arm across the back. With the other he reached for a sandwich and took a healthy bite. He looked up at Yablonski's strained face.

"Not bad. Can I interest you fellows—?" He held the tray out with the thinnest of smiles. Yablonski took it and offered a sandwich to Hammond, who accepted one without a word. Yablonski returned the tray and Bloch tossed them each a beer. He took one himself. When his guests were eating and he felt caution had been dropped, Bloch said, "I know all about your meeting in Washington this morning, Hammond. While I'm not inclined to do anything nasty to you, if I'm forced to, I will. Understand?"

"I think Mr. Yablonski would like to know who's feeding him."

"My apologies." Bloch extended a hand to Yablonski. "Francis Bloch," he said.
      

Yablonski hesitantly shook hands. Bloch's smile flashed on like a warning light, and off just as quickly. He turned back to Hammond.

"I've come to the conclusion," he said, "that it's dangerous to have you on the wrong side. You've seen our demonstration: have you any idea of the potential?"

"I think so," said Hammond, watching Yablonski retreat into a corner.

"In any case, let me point out a few things." Bloch sipped his beer, thought for a moment, then chose his words carefully. "Look at the turmoil this country is in today. Because of an energy crisis, foreign nations are holding a sword at our throats. Transportation costs are rising, manufacturing costs and taxes"—he shook his head and announced with disgust—"incredible!"

Hammond's eyes probed him, reading an unexpected sincerity in the way he sat, the gestures he made.

"Government bureaucracy," continued Bloch, "a hopelessly stupid entanglement through which nobody can move with expediency. Who suffers? The people. Correct?"

Hammond nodded. "So far."

"I can rectify this, Commander." Bloch gestured with one hand. "I can change things. Use your imagination. Can you see bow?" He waited for Hammond to comment.

"You tell me."
      

Bloch stood up, thrust one hand into a pocket, and began pacing. "What do you think would happen if overnight we could do away with the normal means of transporting freight and replace it with something far more efficient and infinitely less expensive? I mean do away with trains, ships, planes, trucks. Not only would we cut down on the unit cost of a product, but
w
e would do away with the need for transportation fuel, for
oil.
We would break the stranglehold these foreigners now have on our commerce!"

He stopped for a moment and eyed Hammond with interest.

Hammond was motionless, then he said, "You want to put the Arabs out of business?"

"A marginal benefit."

"Then why invite them to your parties?"

"In any endeavor, there are winners and losers, Hammond. I enjoy observing their distress."

Probably enjoys pulling the wings off butterflies, too, thought Hammond, but he said nothing.

"Perhaps you don't realize what we've accomplished," Bloch resumed. "We moved the
Sturman
clear across the country in seconds. And this is not the only receiving station of this size. In the last two years, we have been quietly planting them around the world. We buy a shipping yard or warehouse in a city like Tokyo or Bangkok or London, three technicians go over to install the equipment, and we're operational within several months. We have already located ourselves at eleven sites around the world, and that includes a half-dozen stations in this country. If need be, Commander, I can move you and the
Sturman
to New Zealand or Alaska in an instant! I can move anything: enormous quantities of food, clothing, prefabricated shelter for starving nations. In a matter of hours, I can relieve people who are suffering the effects of a natural disaster—"

Hammond interrupted, "And move armies? Tanks, weapons, bombs?"

Bloch stopped again and smiled. "Coming from a military man, I should have expected that. You may not believe me, but I have no interest in using it that way." His eyes grew cold and he leaned closer to Hammond. "However, if it falls into the hands of the U.S. Government, that's exactly what it will be used for."

The silence was deadly. Hammond regarded Bloch with stony suspicion, but he couldn't get the man to falter or even look away. He believed what he had just said, believed it wholeheartedly.

Hammond came back cruelly. "You siphoned off government money to develop it. I think they'll insist on ownership."

"First they must get hold of it. And until now, I've been too careful to let that happen." He sat down again.

"Once they find out you've been kiting funds for twenty years, there won't be a thing you can do to stop it."

Bloch smiled slightly. "Consider yourself apart from the Navy for a moment, out of the service, simply a voting American." He tilted forward on his chair and said simply,
"What makes you think the government will make better use of this than I will?"

The question caught Hammond completely off guard. He glanced at Yablonski, who still stood in the corner, his face hidden in shadow.

Bloch untangled himself from the chair and stood up, unbuttoning his coat and putting his free hand on one hip. "Twenty-odd years ago," he said, "the Navy gave up developing this because its future as a weapon was dubious. That was as far as they could see. I took it over because I saw the real potential. I was involved with Traben before 1953, before the so-called accidental experiment that sent the
Sturman
from Philadelphia to Norfolk. And let me tell you something, Commander Hammond, it was no accident."