Now we could clean up their beachhead here; then we could go after them where they lived. But planning interplanetary expeditions was hardly my job. I knew as much about that subject as I knew about Egyptian art.
When the doctor released me I went looking for Mary. I still had nothing but the Old Man’s word for it, but I had more than a suspicion that I had made a big hairy thing of myself. I did not expect her to be glad to see me, but I had to speak my piece.
You would think that a tall, handsome redhead would be as easy to find as flat ground in Kansas. She would have been had she been a member of the in staff, but she was a field agent. Field agents come and go and the resident personnel are encouraged to mind their own business. Doris had not seen her again—so she said—and was annoyed that I should want to find her.
The personnel office gave me the bland brush off. I was not inquiring officially, I did not know the agent’s name, and just who did I think I was, anyway? They referred me to Operations, meaning the Old Man. That did not suit me.
I had no more luck and met with even more suspicion when I tried the door tally; I began to feel like a spy in my own section.
I went to the bio lab, could not find its chief, and talked to an assistant. He did not know anything about a girl in connection with Project Interview; the subject had been a man—he knew; he had seen the stereo. I told him to take a close look at me. He did and said, “Oh, were you that guy? Pal, you sure took a beating.” He went back to scratching himself and shuffling reports.
I left without saying thank you and went to the Old Man’s office. There seemed to be no choice.
There was a new face at Miss Haines’s desk. I never saw Miss Haines again after the night I got taken. Nor did I ask what had become of her; I did not want to know. The new secretary passed in my I.D. code and, for a wonder, the Old Man was in and would see me.
“What do you want?” he said grumpily.
I said, “Thought you might have some work for me,” which was not at all what I intended to say.
“Matter of fact, I was just fixing to send for you. You’ve loafed long enough.” He barked something at his desk phone, stood up and said, “Come!”
I felt suddenly at peace, and followed him. “Cosmetics?” I asked.
“Your own ugly face will do. We’re headed for Washington.” Nevertheless we did stop in Cosmetics, but only for street clothes. I drew a gun—my own had gone where the woodbine twineth—and had my phone checked.
The door guard made us bare our backs before he would let us approach and check out. Then we tucked our shirts in and went on up, coming out in the lower levels of New Philadelphia, the first I had known as to the location of the Section’s new base. “I take it this burg is clean?” I said to the Old Man.
“If you do, you are rusty in the head,” he answered. “Keep your eyes peeled.”
There was no opportunity for more questions. The presence of so many fully clothed humans bothered me; I found myself drawing away from people and watching for round shoulders. Getting into a crowded elevator to go up to the launching platform seemed downright reckless. When we were in our car and the controls set, I said so. “What in the devil do the authorities in that dump think they are doing? I could swear that at least one cop we passed was wearing a hump.”
“Possibly. Even probably.”
“Well, for crying in church! What goes on? I thought you had this job taped and that we were fighting back on all fronts.”
“We’re trying to. What would you suggest we do about it?”
“Why, it’s obvious—even if it were freezing cold, we ought not to see a back covered up anywhere, not until we know they are all dead.”