“I see. Then it was just luck that they locked us up together.”
“Not luck,” Kettle Belly objected. “Luck is a bonus that follows careful planning — it’s never free. There was a computable probability that they would put us together in hopes of finding out what they wanted to know. We hit the jackpot because we paid for the chance. If we hadn’t, I would have had to crush out of that cell and look for you — but I had to be inside to do it.”
“Who is Mrs. Keithley?”
“Other than what she is publicly, I take it. She is the queen bee — or the black widow — of a gang. ‘Gang’ is a poor word-power group, maybe. One of several such groups, more or less tied together where their interests don’t cross. Between them they divvy up the country for whatever they want like two cats splitting a gopher.”
Gilead nodded; he knew what Baldwin meant, though he had not known that the enormously respected Mrs. Keithley was in such matters — not until his nose had been rubbed in the fact. “And what are you. Kettle Belly?”
“Now, Joe — I like you and I’m truly sorry you’re in a jam. You led wrong a couple of times and I was obliged to trump, as the stakes were high. See here, I feel that I owe you something; what do you say to this: we’ll fix you up with a brand-new personality. vacuum tight — even new fingerprints if you want them. Pick any spot on the globe you like and any occupation; we’ll supply all the money you need to start over — or money enough to retire and play with the cuties the rest of your life. What do you say?”
“No.” There was no hesitation.
“You’ve no close relatives, no intimate trends. Think about it. I can’t put you back in your job; this is the best I can do.”
“I’ve thought about it. The devil with the job, I want to finish my case! You’re the key to it.”
“Reconsider, Joe. This is your chance to get out of affairs of state and lead a normal, happy life.”
“‘Happy,’ he says!”
“Well, safe, anyhow. If you insist on going further your life expectancy becomes extremely problematical.”
“I don’t recall ever having tried to play safe.”
“You’re the doctor, Joe. In that case — ” A speaker on Baldwin’s desk uttered: “cenie B hdg rylp.”
Baldwin answered, “nu,” and sauntered quickly to the fireplace. An early-moming fire still smouldered in it. He grasped the mantel piece, pulled it toward him. The entire masonry assembly, hearth, mantel, and grate, came toward him, leaving an arch in the wall. “Duck down stairs, Joe,” he said. “It’s a raid.”
“A real priest’s hole!”
“Yeah, corny, ain’t it? This joint has more bolt holes than a rabbit’s nest — and booby-trapped, too. Too many gadgets, if you ask me.” He went back to his desk, opened a drawer, removed three film spools and dropped them in a pocket. Gilead was about to go down the staircase; seeing the spools, he stopped. “Go ahead, Joe,” Baldwin said urgently. “You’re covered and outnumbered. With this raid showing up we wouldn’t have time to fiddle; we’d just have to kill you.” They stopped in a room well underground, another study much like the one above, though lacking sunlight and view. Baldwin said something in the odd language to the mike on the desk, was answered.
Gilead experimented with the idea that the lingo might be reversed English, discarded the notion.
“As I was saying,” Baldwin went on, “if you are dead set on knowing all the answers — ”
“Just a moment. What about this raid?”
“Just the government boys. They won’t be rough and not too thorough. Ma Garver can handle them. We won’t have to hurt anybody as long as they don’t use penetration radar.”
Gilead smiled wryly at the disparagement of his own former service. “And if they do?”
“That gimmick over there squeals like a pig, if it’s touched by penetration frequencies. Even then we’re safe against anything short of an A-bomb. They won’t do that; they want the films, not a hole in the ground. Which reminds me — here, catch.”