“The FBI will be here in a few minutes. Now, listen. I’ve just been speaking to the mayor. The Pentagon is already onto this. That thing is some kind of satellite. Or something. And it isn’t one of ours. Obviously they want this kept out of the media for as long as possible. It’s a national security matter already.”
Solms nodded. “We’ve got the area secured. But I have a problem, sir. Two of my officers are missing. And so is a security guard. We need to get forensics in here ASAP. And we’d better call the bomb squad as well, in case that thing is dangerous.”
The university president fought down an anxiety-driven angry response, reminding himself firmly that Solms was just a good cop doing his job. Then, in a carefully controlled voice, O’Ryan said: “I suggest you wait until the FBI get here. Apparently they’re already on their way. After all, they might just have run away or be absent from their posts for a few minutes . . . mightn’t they?”
Solms looked stubborn. “Stavros and Hawkins are useless slobs, sir. But police crime-scene procedures have to be followed in something like this, or we’re treading on a very fine legal line.” Two of the regular Chicago officers echoed their agreement.
The president looked at his watch. He sighed. “Lieutenant, the federal government will have some men to take it out of here before first light anyway. Then your investigation can proceed as normal.”
* * *
Lieutenant Solms’ father was a builder by trade. As a result Solms knew something about bricks and mortar. And if they could get that thing out of the building without knocking down a few walls, he was a Dutchman’s maiden aunt.
2
A bibliophile’s progress.
At the same time that Dr. Jerry Lukacs was looking blearily into the mirror in his cluttered apartment in Hyde Park, a party was boarding a military aircraft in Washington. The NSC had dispatched Tom Harkness to go to Chicago and inspect the “object.”
Washington had been through mild panic, and had now slipped into skepticism. The magic word was spreading—hoax—and since Harkness had done more of the spreading than anyone, he got tagged for the assignment.
He strode aboard the aircraft with confidence. And why not? Tom Harkness hadn’t climbed this far up the NSC ladder by not finding exactly what he’d been told to find. . . .
* * *
Not one of the team of hangers-on and Pentagon desk jockeys boarding with Harkness had ever allowed themselves to look like Jerry Lukacs. Not even first thing in the morning. Jerry tugged at the almost-goatee on his chin. He must buy some razor blades again. Really must. He didn’t even notice the disordered bush of hair. If he had noticed it, he’d have chuckled and said “medusoid” and left it at that. Jerry was possibly the most unsartorially elegant person in the entire universe.
He dressed his scrawny body by guess, and with some difficulty. He was trying to read at the time—Jerry was usually trying to read at any time—and the clothes kept getting in the way of the book. It was only with great reluctance, and great haste, that he tore his eyes away from the print from time to time to finish his vestmental chore.
Finally, he was clad in clean jeans, unmatched socks, a shirt and a windbreaker. The prerequisites of not being arrested for public indecency being fulfilled, he wandered into the kitchen for a cup of black coffee and a bowl of cornflakes. He was still reading as he went. But, since he was familiar with the layout of his apartment, he did manage to avoid bumping into corners. Or, at least, to turn head-on collisions into glancing encounters.
Once in the kitchen, alas, he discovered that there was almost no coffee left. And, while there was a full box of cereal, there wasn’t more than half a cup of milk left in the carton. Jerry was as absentminded about grocery shopping as he was about getting dressed.
He peered peevishly at the note pinned to the refrigerator door with a small magnet. Must buy more milk. Really must. Coffee too. Razor blades.
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