In addition to the Russian attack, which would be remembered as one of history’s great victories, there was the matter of his personal coup, which had vaulted him into the presidency of security-sensitive Stenco.
Uncle would be astonished at his success, no doubt, but even more pleased and grateful, for was not Stenco a veritable cornucopia of space secrets? He might be promoted to KGB colonel, even brigadier general. So carried away with the euphoria of his speculations was Opal, that he knocked back the stinger and ordered a third. Tonight he owned the world, and felt a little reckless.
A heavy hand fell on his shoulder.
He turned and looked up into the face of Hobart Caulkins.
“You’re late,” Opal complained.
“I’m half an hour late,” Caulkins admitted. “You’re two days late. Where have you been, Little Bo-Peep?”
“Ah!” Opal said, savoring the moment, for Caulkins had always shown contempt for his talents. “That is the question.”
“That is. Answer it, and make it snappy. I have other people to see tonight.”
Opal looked slowly around the bar. Two men in battered ten-gallon hats were arguing about the Russian attack at a jukebox over in one corner, a couple with heads together occupied one of the booths, and a drunk slumped at the far end of the bar. Otherwise, they were alone.
“You’re looking at the new president of Stenco.” said Opal proudly.
“I’m looking at what?”
“Stenco-Satellite Technology and Extraterrestrial Nucleonics Company. I’m the new president.”
“Tell me what happened. Tell me fast, tell me straight, and don’t leave anything out, Opal.” Caulkins was obviously furious.
Taken aback, Opal hesitated, thought fast, and gave a carefully edited version of the previous days’ events. He had, per Caulkins’s orders, investigated the hot-water emissions violations at SD-1, he said. The emissions were indeed a violation of the NRC regulations. But it had been going on only for four days due to an inadvertent valve blockage, which blockage he had confirmed by an inspection of maintenance reports. However, more detailed investigation at the Texas basin- undertaken at his own initiative-revealed that the discharge had been going on for some time, maybe months. He confronted Gwillam Forte with the evidence. The violation, though venial, Opal had cleverly parlayed into the job of president of Stenco; the threat to report the infraction to NRC had apparently been enough. They both knew that if Forte hadn’t come across, he was in danger of losing his huge government contracts for submarine nuclear reactors.
Hobart Caulkins listened to the story impassively.
“So you see,” Opal continued, “I am now on the inside, and can feed the Center every single scrap of classified information on the premises. What do you think of that?”
Caulkins regarded him coldly. “I think you’re a stupid, greedy, lying little man, Izzy. I’ve had a man in Stenco for years. Now, then, I want to hear your story again. Just the parts you left out. Tell it straight, or I’ll kill you here and now.”
Dr. Opal, suddenly stone sober, told it straight, omitting no detail.
“You’re a scientist, Izzy,” Caulkins said thoughtfully when the other had finished. “What do those hot-water emissions tell you?”
Opal licked his lips. Maybe he could save himself if he told Caulkins something really useful.
“That nuclear reactors are aboard the U.S.S. Texas, of course.”
“How do you figure that?”
“Cooling water temperature. The temperature of the cooling water that comes from the reactor jacket is known. I measured the temperature that comes from the Texas basin. The two are almost identical.”
“They would be.”
“Only if the water came from the Texas, you see. If it was merely discharged into the Texas basin, having come from SD-1 some nine kilometers distant, as Forte claimed it did, the water would have lost a significant amount of heat.”
“Well, that makes sense, Izzy.” Caulkins smiled for the first time since he came in. “So Forte has reactors aboard the Texas. Why?”
“Propulsion.”
“Propulsion where?”
“Down the Houston Ship Channel, obviously. Into the Seventeenth High Seas Fleet. My guess is it’s loaded with TNT to blow up the Texas itself along with as much of the fleet as possible.”
“You know something, Izzy,” Caulkins said gravely, “I think you’re right. Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I-I was going to.”
“When?”
“Tonight. I was going to give you a full report.”
“Uh-huh.” Caulkins marveled at the ease with which Opal’s greed had overpowered his political judgment and instinct for survival. Too bad, Opal.
Opal grinned weakly. “It’s just that with all these things going on, I haven’t had time to write it up yet.”
“Well, don’t you think you’d better?”
“Yeah. I’d better get on it.”
He rose, and put a ten-dollar bill on the bar.
“I’ll go with you,” Caulkins said.
Outside it was dark, the clouds mixed with the black greasy smoke that still boiled up from the fires far to the south. Half a dozen cars were parked haphazardly by the side of the rundown building, whose isolation was its reason for having been chosen by Caulkins as a meeting place. A neon sign leaned forlornly into the night wind, casting a pool of dappled red light on the bare earth beneath. Hobe Caulkins inspected the surroundings. No one seemed to be around. He walked to one side of the little frame building, and in the shadows unzipped his trousers.
“That cheap beer gets to you,” he said. “Join me?”
Dr. Izard T. Opal knew that if he didn’t, Hobe Caulkins would laugh at him for being a snob; he had done it before. Opal didn’t like that snide laugh. He went to stand alongside the other man.
Suddenly Caulkins’s hand clamped around his throat. Opal tried to kick him in the crotch, but Caulkins blocked the kick with his thigh and kept on squeezing. Opal battered at his attacker with his fists, but his fists were too small, his arms too short, his muscles too soft to discommode the other man, who was, without haste, squeezing the life out of him.
Opal felt his eyes starting from their sockets, the ringing of a million bells in his ears, the blood rushing to his head but not getting there. He tried to bite, and bit his tongue half in two, although he didn’t notice the pain. He tried to scratch, but his nails futilely clawed the air. He tried to scream, but could only manage a faint gurgle.
Trying became too much of an effort. He felt death stealthily edging closer. It was a more peaceful sensation than he had imagined it would be. He wondered why he was bothering to put up a fight at all. It wasn’t dignified for a man in his position, a doctor of philosophy, the president of Stenco. He wanted to turn to greet it, but before he could do so, he found it was already there, grinning at him. . . .
Just before he died, a brilliant flash of light illuminated his fading vision. A glimpse of heaven?
It was the headlights of a police cruiser, which had turned off the access road into the lane leading to the bar-and-grill, and for a brief instant it trapped the two men in its beams. Caulkins wasn’t sure he had been seen, so brief had been the stab of light. Nor was it likely that, if he had been seen, he had been observed, for his body partly obscured that of Dr. Opal.
He squeezed on, and didn’t release the body until he was sure the other man was dead. Then he stepped away, started to go back the way he came, changed his mind and walked quietly around the back of the building where there was nothing but darkness.
A flashlight beam struck him squarely in the eyes.
“Hold it right there, bud,” a deep voice said.
Caulkins stopped, smiled his best yokel smile, and held up his hand before his eyes.
The police officer marched him at the point of his revolver back the way he had come, grunted when he saw the body of Dr. Opal, and instructed Caulkins to spread-eagle on the hood of the patrol cruiser.
Hobe Caulkins complied.
With the revolver pressing against his prisoner’s kidney, the policeman slowly but methodically fanned him for weapons. Finding none, he straightened.
He was a man built along Texan lines-big, beefy, and hard. He was half a head taller than Caulkins and outweighed him by fifty pounds. Looking down at the smaller man, the policeman holstered his pistol and reached for his handcuffs.
Caulkins held out his wrists and in the same forward movement plunged what seemed to be a ball-point pen into the other man’s neck.
It went in too easily and too deep to be a ball-point pen.
Caulkins leaped lightly back to avoid the gush of blood as the policeman staggered back against the wall of the bar-and-grill and slid to the ground. Caulkins bent over him and examined the wound in the dim light. It was gushing blood, which confirmed to Caulkins that he had, as he had aimed to do, punctured the carotid artery, which would leave the policeman dead within two or three seconds.