Weinbaum paused for a moment, astonished at his own fury.
Stevens’s clarinetlike voice began to sound in the window-less cavity. “Captain, I have no doubt that you can do this to me, at least incompletely. But it will prove fruitless. I will give you a prediction, at no charge. It is guaranteed, as are all our predictions. It is this: You will never find that modification. Eventually, I will give it to you, on my own terms, but you will never find it for yourself, nor will you force it 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 helplessly 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.