“You don’t want to come to my apartment? I won’t bite you.”
“I was hoping you would—so I could bite back. No, I was just wondering why the sudden switch?”
“Well—perhaps I wanted to show you the bear traps I have arranged tastefully around my bed. Or perhaps I just wanted to prove to you I could cook.” She dimpled for a moment.
I flagged a taxi and we went to her apartment.
When we got inside she left me standing, while she made a careful search of the place, then she came back and said, “Turn around. I want to feel your back.”
“Why do—”
“Turn around!”
I shut up and did so. She gave it a good knuckling, all over, then said, “Now you can feel mine.”
“With pleasure!” Nevertheless I did a proper job, for I saw what she was driving at. There was nothing under her clothes but girl—girl and assorted items of lethal hardware.
She turned around and let a deep sigh. “That’s why I didn’t want to go to your hotel room. Now we’re safe. Now I know we are safe for the first time since I saw that thing on the station manager’s back. This apartment is tight; I turn off the air and leave it sealed like a vault every time I leave it.”
“Say—how about the air conditioning? Could one get in through the ducts?”
“Possibly—but I didn’t turn on the conditioner system; I cracked one of the air-raid reserve bottles instead. Never mind; what would you like to eat?”
I wanted to suggest Mary herself, served up on lettuce and toast, but I thought better of it. “Any chance of about two pounds of steak, just warmed through?”
We split a five-pound steak between us and I swear I ate the short half. While we chomped, we watched the newscast. Still no news from Iowa.
V
I did not get to see the bear traps; she locked her bedroom door. I know; I tried it. Three hours later she woke me and we had a second breakfast. Presently we struck cigarettes and I reached over and switched off the newscast. It was devoted principally to a display of the states’ entries for “Miss America.” Ordinarily I would have watched with interest but since none of the babes was round-shouldered and their contest costumes could not possibly have concealed humps bigger than mosquito bites, it seemed to lack importance that day.
I said, “Well?”
Mary said, “We’ve got to arrange the facts we have dug up and rub the President’s nose in them. Action has to be on a national scale—global, really.”
“How?”
“We’ve got to see him again.”
I repeated, “How?”
She had no answer for that one.
I said, “We’ve got only one route—via official channels. Through the Old Man.”
I put in the call, using both our codes so that Mary could hear, too. Presently I heard, “Chief Deputy Oldfield, speaking for the Old Man. He’s not available. Shoot.”
“It’s got to be the Old Man.”
There was a pause, then, “I don’t have either one of you down as on assignment. Is this official or unofficial?”
“Uh, I guess you’d call it unofficial.”
“Well, I won’t put you through to the Old Man for anything unofficial. And anything official I am handling. Make up your mind.”
I thanked him and switched off before I used any bad language. Then I coded again. The Old Man has a special code, in addition to regular channels, which is guaranteed to cause him to rise up out of his coffin—but God help the agent who uses it unnecessarily. I hadn’t used it in five years.
He answered with a burst of profanity.
“Boss,” I said, “on the Iowa matter—”
He broke off short. “Yes?”
“Mary and I spent all night digging former data out of the files. We want to talk it over with you.”
The profanity resumed. Presently he told me to brief it and turn it in for analysis and added that he intended to have my ears fried for a sandwich.
“Boss!” I said sharply.
“Eh?”
“If you can run out on the job, so can we. Both Mary and I are resigning from the Section right now—and that’s official!”