out of me. In the meantime, not a word of copy will be
filed with you; for, despite the fact that you are an arm of
the government, I can well afford to wait you out.”
“Bluster,” Weinbaum said.
“Fact. Yours is the blusterloud talk based on nothing
more than a hope. I, however, know whereof I speak. . . .
But let us conclude this discussion. It serves no purpose;
you will need to see my points made the hard way. Thank
you for giving me my freedom. We will talk again under
different circumstances onlet me see; ah, yes, on June 9
of the year 2091. That year is, I believe, almost upon us.”
Stevens picked up his book again, nodding at Weinbaum,
his expression harmless and kindly, his hands showing the
marked tremor of paralysis agitans. Weinbaum moved help-
lessly to the door and flagged the turnkey. As the bars closed
behind him, Stevens’s voice called out: “Oh, yes; and a
Happy New Year, Captain.”
Weinbaym blasted his way back into his own office, at
least twice as mad as the proverbial nest of hornets, and at
the same time rather dismally aware of his own probable
future. If Stevens’s second prediction turned out to be as
phenomenally accurate as his first had been, Capt. Robin
Weinbaum would soon be peddling a natty set of second-
hand uniforms.
He glared down at Margaret Soames, his receptionist
She glared right back; she had known him too long to be
intimidated.
“Anything?” he said.
“Dr. Wald’s waiting for you in your office. There are some
field reports, and a couple of Diracs on your private tape.
Any luck with the old codger?”