Part 3

Frescura laughed reassuringly. “Don’t worry. These capsules are harmless or _I_ wouldn’t be here.” He picked up a few of the tiny black cylinders and juggled them casually. “I was just attempting a reconstruction. What size was the thermal capsule which you saw?”

Talbot touched the spheres gingerly. They were jet-black and fathomlessly unreflective. “This, I think,” he said. “Or possibly this.”

Frescura laid five of the capsules down, rolling the other two in his hand. “I’m afraid that doesn’t help much,” he said at last. “It depends, you see, on how thick the covering was, and we can only guess at that. Let’s say the temperature was over a hundred thousand degrees.”

The temperature didn’t interest Talbot. He didn’t care by how much he’d nearly been vaporized. “Why don’t we use capsule material like this?” he said. “It ought to make a good tube liner.”

Frescura’s brows seemed to thicken and grow larger. “Are you seriously suggesting that I start my experiments from the beginning? Four years ago I told you we couldn’t use it. Now you act as if it’s something new.”

Talbot got out of the dilemma hastily. He regretted that he had not spent more time on the technical aspects. He’d tried to be thorough, but failures were never recorded as thoroughly as triumphs.

“It’s a thought,” he said, hoping the remark would pass for executive stubbornness. “Maybe we overlooked something.”

“Maybe we _didn’t_,” growled Frescura. “The thinnest skin we can make will hold a piece of matter at a hundred thousand degrees for ten minutes. If we make it two inches thick it will last twenty-nine minutes and fourteen seconds. Constructed out of this a liner that would do us any good would be a quarter mile in diameter at its widest section. Is that practical?”

“You might look into it again. You may have some new ideas,” said Talbot. He had avoided stumbling badly--and he’d learned something, although he should have known it in advance. The thermal bomb had been made in the plant. He looked up quickly. “Just when did the technicians arrive that morning? How many were in early?”

“I went over that,” said Frescura. “So did plant protection. At least fifty men were asked in ahead of their shift. Several came in without being asked. But none of them were near your office.”

It was puzzling and significant. Soleri had been in charge for years with no attempt on his life _until he, Talbot, had been brought in_.

Talbot filed the fact away for future reference. Someone had known Talbot was going to come in that morning. Soleri had made it plain that Randy knew. But who else?

Whom besides Randy had Soleri talked to? He couldn’t ask, but it was of vital importance. Whoever it was he had carefully manufactured the bomb in the laboratory, calculating the time by the thickness of the skin. That somebody had stuffed the capsule in his pocket and gone to Soleri’s office. When only a few seconds remained, he had rolled it through the door, giving himself just enough time to escape. But who was he? Talbot had no idea.

He discussed the thermal bomb for a moment or two and then switched to the progress on the motor. He listened to Frescura, who was more than willing to talk. Soon, unless he could slide out of the invitation, he was going to have to answer some far more pointed questions from Taft.

Still discussing high, very high, and stellar temperature chemistry, they went into the main experimental shop. This gave Talbot the opportunity of meeting the men he was supposed to have worked with for several years. There was a great difference between a picture and a page of statistics--even psychologically loaded statistics--and the man himself. He did a creditable job of imitating Soleri as he spoke to them. He had gone a long way toward merging with the dead man’s personality. But there was always an incalculable risk involved in anything he might say or do.

Frescura stopped expectantly beside a large construction site enclosure. “This is the latest,” he said in a hushed voice.

Talbot looked at the work in progress critically. He was still at sea as to its more technical aspects. “Is this the project we were working on before the accident?” he asked.

“Not exactly,” Frescura replied. “I’ve mentioned the theory before. But the application is new.”

Talbot was relieved. He wouldn’t be expected to know much about it. “Go over it for my benefit,” he urged. “Quite a bit has happened in the interval.”

Frescura glanced at him queerly, and he regretted having made the request. “You ought to remember this,” said the scientist. “Well, it’s off the mainline of our experiments, but I thought we might get some constructive results. We make the tube of dissimilar metals, one jacketing the other. When it is heated we get a thermocouple effect. An electric charge is generated. The charge on the inside of the tube repels the exhaust molecules so that they don’t actually come in contact with the inside surface. This reduces both heating and erosion.”

Talbot rubbed his head. “I remember. Is it ready to go?”

“It is,” said Frescura grimly. “But don’t stand there unless you want another accident.”

Talbot got out of the way hastily. He was blundering in practically every statement he made. There was far more to a person than personality, or his outward appearance. In Talbot’s particular case knowledge was lacking--not textbook information, but intimate details that could be acquired only by working closely with the man he was impersonating. So far it hadn’t been serious. But he’d have to watch himself.

Frescura moved a switch, and there was a rumble within the enclosure. A tiny, barely visible flame shot out a foot from where Talbot had been standing. The rumble rose to a shriek, and quickly passed beyond the range of hearing. The flame disappeared, but Talbot could still feel the heat.

Frescura picked up a wrench and tossed it into the path of the exhaust. The instrument vanished and the huge curved backstop a hundred feet away was suddenly coated with a thin film of molten metal. Frescura grinned at him.

“You’ve got to watch these things,” he said. He peered into an eyepiece on the enclosure, making several adjustments before he seemed satisfied. “Take a look,” he said to Talbot.

Talbot looked, his eyes gradually growing accustomed to the intense light that passed through the dense filters. He could see the inside of the rocket tube, and the fierce incandescence shooting by. Actually none of the exhaust gasses touched the walls of the tube, for there was a static area an inch in thickness next to the wall where nothing seemed to penetrate.

As he tried to see more clearly exactly what was happening the enclosure began to vibrate again, shaking the foundation. But the metal held. The shriek declined to a rumble and then the sound died away completely.

Talbot blinked and straightened up. Frescura was jotting down readings from the instruments on the enclosure. He made a few quick calculations. “The test corresponds to a rocket speed of thirty thousand miles a second,” he said.

It was a long way from what they wanted, but it was about fifteen times better than anything that had been attained before. “Not bad,” Talbot said, cautiously. “Maybe we should settle for this. One sixth the speed of light. Twenty-five years to the nearest star.”

Frescura scowled at him. “Make it thirty,” he said. “They’ve got to get up speed and slow down. Thirty to the star and thirty back. Sixty years for the round trip, not counting exploration time.”

“I understand,” Talbot said. “But with a young crew--boys not over twenty-two or three--it’s possible to send a ship to the nearest star and reasonably expect it to return.”

“They’ll be eighty when they come back,” said Frescura. “Their friends will all be dead.”

“There are some lads who will volunteer--if the rewards are high enough.”

“No doubt,” said Frescura. “But there’s one detail which prevents it--building a rocket motor which will last for more than a few seconds.”

“You’ve already accomplished a great deal,” said Talbot.

“This?” Frescura laughed. “No good at all. You saw what just happened.”

“I did. You shut off the motor.”

Frescura looked at Talbot with sour amusement. “It was the automatics that cut off the flow of fuel. Didn’t you see it? The inner charge repelled matter, but it _couldn’t stop radiation_. Radiation heated the tube. As it grew hot beyond a certain temperature the thermocouple charge diminished, intensifying the heat transfer to the tube. When it went, it fell apart in a hurry.”

Talbot frowned. “There’s no way around it?”

“None I know of. I’ll keep trying of course. With another hundred million dollars we might make this work even though it’s far from what we’re after.”

Talbot shook his head in admiration. Frescura tossed huge sums about with utmost ease. “Keep with it,” he said. “We’ve got to lick this or it will finish us.”

“We’ll come out on top,” said Frescura optimistically.

Unfortunately Talbot didn’t have the same confidence. “Economize where you can,” he cautioned.

“There is no such thing as economy in research,” Frescura affirmed.

“There had better be. We’re running low. Accounting is beginning to ask questions. We’ll have to go to the board of directors before long.”

“I guess so. The accident cost plenty.” Frescura leaned against the enclosure, rubbing it with unconscious affection. “If you need help, let me know. I’ll add my weight to yours.”

“I’ll let you know,” said Talbot as he walked away.

The trouble with Frescura was that he was a theoretical scientist, completely indifferent to cost. As he went through the plant he saw countless examples of waste. There was endless duplication, and the place seemed overstaffed. But, though he could undoubtedly reduce costs with efficient administration, that was not the most vital problem.

He had to locate and unmask a man who did not shrink from cold-blooded murder. It couldn’t have been Soleri. A successful saboteur would not have sought out Talbot to help him. Neither would he have killed himself. And it could not have been Randy. The trouble had begun long before she had been hired. It wasn’t Frescura, for he had not only initiated the project. He had pushed it through with all the influence at his command.

Taft was still unaccounted for. But he was the president of the company and it was inconceivable that he would launch a criminal conspiracy against his own interests.

Nevertheless Talbot made up his own mind. His extreme sensitivity was his most valuable weapon. He intended to find out just how far it would take him. He completed the tour of the plant and went back to the office.

He called Randy, and immediately took up the problem of Taft. “I still haven’t answered his invitation,” he told her.

Her eyes clouded. “I know,” she said. “I’ll notify the department heads that you won’t be in the plant for a few days--beginning Wednesday.”

“I’ll be here,” he said. “I want you to dream up an excuse why I can’t go. Make it good. I trust your social sense.”

“You can’t do that,” she protested. “Have you seen the latest statement from accounting?”

“I have. We’ll need funds before long.”

“You don’t turn down an invitation from the president when you may need his help.”

“You do when there are graver issues at stake. I’ve got to begin somewhere. The top is a good place.”

“A dangerous place,” she said.

“I’m not thinking about that.”

“You’d better,” she said. “Unless--have you got a cushion?”

“In a way,” he said. “Somebody wants this project to fail, badly enough kill anyone who stands in his way. Good, we’ll let it come close to failure. We’ll see if there is any attempt made to interfere--”

“You’re the boss,” she shrugged.

“I hope it works.”

“It will.”

He flung himself into his work for the remainder of the afternoon. Facts and figures went into his head and what came out was a reasonable duplication of what Soleri had known.

He finished late. Most of the office force had gone home. A few technicians were working in the shop. Tired and numb he took an aircab. Twenty moments later he was letting himself into his apartment. He wasn’t imagining it. There was someone in the apartment. Still, Soleri would inevitably have visitors now and then. It was nothing to be afraid of. He went in.

Randy smiled at him. “Hello, darling,” she said.

VI

Frescura got up hastily as he heard Taft’s familiar voice in Randy’s office. “I’ll leave,” he said, folding the sheet Talbot had just signed.

“Stick around,” Talbot urged. “I’m sure he wants to see you.” He hadn’t thought Taft would come so soon, but he was not at all displeased. He was equally grateful for Frescura’s presence, feeling confident that it would provoke some interesting reactions. But he was destined to be disappointed.

Frescura wriggled his thick mustache. “I came up to ask Randy something. I’ll go talk to her. If Taft wants to see me he’ll come out to the lab.”

“Suit yourself,” said Talbot.

Frescura left. He could hear him conversing briefly with Taft in Randy’s office before Taft came in.

Andrew Taft was not the lean graying figure so familiar to the newscast public. He was tall, but he was also considerably heavier than he appeared to be on the screen. Distinguished citizens had certain prerogatives, and the networks saw to it that the lighting dealt kindly with them.

“Sorry about the party,” Taft said on entering. “I flew up to try to persuade you to change your mind.”

Talbot shook hands, using his most cautious Soleri approach. “You know how it is,” he said in half-apology. “I’ve fallen behind since the tragedy. I’ve got to dig my way out.”

“I’ve worried about you,” said Taft. “So has Eleanor.” He glanced up quickly. “Your insistence on shunning social engagements doesn’t have anything to do with her, does it?”

“It doesn’t,” Talbot assured him.

“South Africa may be a nice place to live. But it’s quite a distance. And I really am in a mess here.”

“Nonsense. You can fly there in a few hours,” said Taft.

“Eight,” Talbot reminded him. “Service isn’t good to that part of the globe.”

“You can cut the time in half if you charter a direct flight,” said Taft. “I suppose it would tire you out. But over-work can kill. You ought to call Eleanor. You know she won’t take the initiative.”

Talbot decided to risk a decisive move. “I’ll call her now,” he said.

“No, wait until I leave,” said Taft hastily. “I don’t want her to know I came to see you.”

“Tonight then,” suggested Talbot.

“Tonight’s fine,” said Taft. He chatted on inconsequentially for a time. Talbot could see that Soleri’s relationship with Eleanor’s family--though nominally cordial--was actually quite superficial, except possibly with Eleanor herself. He would have to be careful not to trip there.

“What’s behind all this?” said Taft finally. “I know you. You work hard, but you can also relax. You’re not the kind to turn down an invitation just because you’re busy.”

He’d judged the man correctly. Taft was shrewd, and quick to protect his own interests, daughter or company. “I may as well be frank,” said Talbot heavily. “I’m afraid we’re not going to develop the perfect rocket motor--or anything close to it.”

“That’s not what you said in your last report.”

“Official optimism.”

“It’s not Frescura’s attitude. I talked to him in Randy’s office and he’s brimming over with enthusiasm.”

“Frescura will back his own work if it takes the last cent of the stockholders’ money.”

“Don’t forget that some of that money belongs to him. He has stock in the company too. In fact, his holdings exceed yours.”

“I know. But we’ve spent six times the amount we originally estimated. And the end’s not even in sight. I haven’t made up my mind, but I’ve been wondering lately. Perhaps we should abandon this line of research entirely. It may be the wisest course.”

Taft stared at him, aghast. “You must be out of your mind. What would we do with this plant? Close it down?”

“We don’t have to. We can lease research facilities to other companies. We can tackle short-range projects that _will_ pay off.”

Taft got up and paced the floor. “You’re in favor of abandoning the perfect rocket motor?”

“I didn’t say that. I merely said that I was thinking about it. Of course an alternative would be to reduce the scale of our efforts. Cut it back to a few men--something that we can afford.”

“I don’t know,” said Taft in agitation. “Frescura isn’t going to like this.”

“That’s another matter I wanted to discuss with you,” said Talbot. “Frescura is a valuable man--too brilliant to be wasted on a project that has no chance of success. We should assign him to something more worthy of his talent.”

Taft sat down. “You are actually saying that we should forget about going to the stars.”

“Not exactly. I think the idea should be placed in the proper perspective. Later developments may enable us to resurrect it.” Talbot was somewhat bewildered. Taft’s reaction had surprised him--although he couldn’t have said quite what it was that he had expected.

“Don’t you see what it means?” said Taft, his face lighting up. “If we develop the motor in our own shops it will be _ours_. We won’t have to license it to others. Every bit of interstellar trade will be carried in our ships. Ours alone. _Monopoly_.”

“Monopoly is nice,” said Talbot. “Bankruptcy isn’t. That’s what we face unless we cut down.”

“TRANSPORTATION is years away from bankruptcy,” said Taft sharply.

* * * * *

It was a shock to hear even that admission. Talbot’s own knowledge of the company’s financial position was fair. But Taft was in a better position to know the facts and if he said, even privately, that ruin was years away it could be assumed that he had grave doubts about the stability of the corporation.

The startling fact stood revealed in all its naked ugliness. The largest company in the solar system was none too secure. And it was the reckless expenditures that Soleri was directing that had led them to the brink of disaster. At least he had uncovered one motive. Someone with a knowledge of the truth was out to wreck TRANSPORTATION.

Before he could collect his thoughts there was an unexpected interruption. The door opened and Frescura came in, his face dark with anger. “As long as this is a stockholders’ meeting I thought I’d make it a quorum,” he said.

This much Talbot knew. Taft was the largest individual holder, owning something less than fifty percent of the total corporate shares. Frescura held a lesser percentage, though fractionally more than Soleri did. Together the three of them constituted an actual working majority. It had been their combined votes which had backed the project from the beginning.

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” said Frescura. “Randy touched the wrong button while we were talking and I overheard part of the conversation. It concerned me--so I came in.”

“We were discussing policy,” said Taft soothingly. “Nothing was decided. You understand that.”

“I understand,” said Frescura in a hard set tone. “I also understand that this man is dangerous. He is _not_ Soleri.”

The assurance that Talbot had gradually been acquiring suddenly collapsed. He sat motionless, while a cold constriction tightened about his heart.

Taft looked from Talbot to Frescura. “You can’t be serious? I ought to be able to recognize my chief executive and my own daughter’s fiance.”

“Ordinally you would. But this man is a clever impostor,” said Frescura. “He wants to abandon the project. Soleri would have recoiled from the thought.”

“I see no significance in that. Anyone can change his mind.”

“Proof is on the way,” said Frescura. He seemed very sure of himself. “I began to suspect him when he put questions to me Soleri would not have needed to ask.”

“It still isn’t proof.” But Taft was wavering. He turned and stared uncertainly at Talbot.

“You can’t expect me to defend myself from a charge like this,” said Talbot. He realized at once that it was a weak answer, and tried to strengthen it. “The fire in my office wasn’t trivial. It’s true, I may have suffered a slight memory loss. The bursting of a few tiny blood vessels in my brain would account for it. But that doesn’t mean I’m less capable than before.”

There was no possibility of escape. At Frescura’s command plant protection would close every exit in the building. And then he’d be charged with sabotage and murder.

He had to sit it out. If he was exposed his only chance would be to claim that for a time he had actually thought himself to be Soleri. They’d investigate him psychologically, but mind tests weren’t exact and he had a good chance of making them believe he was telling the truth.

“Nobody’s doubting your mental competence,” said Taft. “But there is some question as to who you are. Are you Evan Soleri?”

“What can I say to that?” said Talbot. “Are you Andrew Taft?”

“That’s not a defense,” said Frescura with smooth confidence. “It won’t be difficult to establish your identity.” He turned abruptly. “Come in Randy.”

The door opened and Randy entered the room. Talbot was sure she had been listening to the entire conversation. He had never doubted her loyalty, but if Frescura had convinced her that he was not worthy of loyalty--

Frescura took the folder from her. Talbot knew what was coming but curiously it relieved him. At least Randy wasn’t responsible.

“You can leave now,” Frescura said sharply to her. Talbot knew she would continue to listen outside the door, and was glad he would not have to see her face.

“His right hand was badly burned,” Frescura was saying. “New skin was grafted on. We can’t prove anything from that.”

“Fingerprints?” said Taft. “It’s an old method of identification, but I’ve often wondered why it has fallen into disrepute.”

“Because of the prevalence of skin grafts,” said Frescura. “But for certain purposes it’s still the most accurate method.” He smiled. “It’s in the hospital record that his left hand wasn’t burned. No skin was grafted on. The prints on that hand will show us who he really is.”

He shook the folder at Talbot. “This man signed an authorization shortly before you came. When I heard what he said to you my suspicions were confirmed. I sent Randy down to plant protection for a comparison of prints. Here are the results.”

He opened the folder, and looked at the three typed pages within. He stood there motionless, staring in consternation until the papers slid out and fluttered to the floor. His face was ashen. He reached out for support and lowered himself into a chair.

“What does it say?” said Taft impatiently. “My God, what’s happening around this place anyway?” He scooped up the papers and read them silently. He passed them over to Talbot. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Truly sorry. I should never have had even the slightest doubt about you.”

Talbot’s sight blurred as he read the comment from plant protection: “Comparison of prints with those in our file reveals that Evan Soleri signed this authorization. The left hand prints match perfectly. The right hand indicates a skin graft from which no identification can be made.”