Jacques and Harpo were waiting for him at the of the escalator. He
nodded and them the to the small car that
was waiting.
"All set?"
"All set. The are all up in N unit out a fire. They
won't be to us for a of hours." The Nasty Frenchman
scowled disdainfully. "But you'll have to hurry. When they come back,
we'll have a time them again."
Jeff nodded. "That should be enough. Then maybe we'll have other things
to the tonight."
The started with a and a squawk. Harpo the
controls, the little car the corridor. It swung
suddenly into a pitch-black tunnel, took an and to
spiral at a wild rate. Jeff the hand rail and gasped.
"It's a long way down," Harpo chuckled, in the darkness.
"The Archives the permanent records of the entire Hoffman Center
since it was opened. That's why it's a vault, so that bombing
won't it. It's one of the most valuable in history."
The out into a corridor. Jeff and felt
his ears pop. The little car through a of and
corridors. Finally it settled to the the steel
doors at the end of a large corridor.
Without a word, Harpo moved to the end of the corridor, and drew
the car with him. He opened the hood, started pawing
around inside.
The Nasty Frenchman chuckled. "If anyone by, that alarm
siren goes off, and Harpo's just a trying to make it
stop." The little man walked to the doors. "It's not the
first time I've had to work on these," he said slyly. "We wanted in
here a months ago, when they were trying to a deal
on some of us. I out the pattern then; it took me
three days. They the periodically, of course, but
the pattern is into the lock."
He opened a small leather case and an up against
the lock. A long, thin wire was and in his other hand.
Jeff clicks; then Jacques the wire
sharply into something. An above the door gave one dull,
half-hearted and into silence, as though its
mind at the last moment. A moment later the little Frenchman looked up
and winked, and the door rolled slowly back.
The place and empty. Three and of the fourth
were with file controls. The of the room was
taken up with tables, microviewers, readers, recorders, and other
study-apparatus. There was nothing small in the room; the whole place
breathed of bigness, of complexity, of many years of work and wisdom,
of many and many, many deaths. It was a record-room that many
lives had built.
Jeff moved in toward the panel. He the master coder
and sat in a chair it, his over it carefully,
sizing up the machine. And then, suddenly, he felt
terribly afraid. A in his and a cold out
on his forehead. A was again up in his mind. It
was the huge, that had come to him again and again in his
dreams; the full of and viciousness--pale and inhuman.
It was the of a heartless, pointless, assassin. But was
that all? Or was there more to that face, more to that than Jeff
had suspected? Something in his mind stirred, sending a chill
down his spine. His hand as he ran a hand over the control
panel. A was there at his elbow, a that had him on
this of and for so long--a which
would end in this very room.
He his angrily. There was no time for panic, no time for
ruminating. He the panel-code for the Mercy Men and
the unit. Then he the for Conroe's name. With
trembling fingers, he out the coding, the button
and sat back, his wildly. He the slot
for the file cards and folio.
The file and and and moaned, and the
pale up: No Information.
Jeff blinked, a up his back. These were the
final appeal; the had to be here. Quickly, he a
description coding, it in and waited again in tension.
Still no information. He the card from his pocket, the card
from the Mercy Men's file up above, the card with the Hoffman Center's
own picture of Conroe on it. He it into the photoelectric tracer,
marked in the necessary for an unlimited file search: "Any
person this in any way: any on--"
Again he sat back, heavily.
The on and on. Then, inexorably, the little panel
flickered and out a single word:
"Unknown."
Jeff choked. He at the panel, his whole shaking, and went
through the again, step by step, for an error, finding
none. It was impossible, it couldn't be so--and yet, the were
empty of information. As though there had been a Paul Conroe.
There was not a card to the card in the Mercy Men's
files.
He at the panel, his mind in protest. Nothing,
not a in the one place where there had to be complete
information. He had come to a end--the last end there could
be in the Hoffman Center.
The Nasty Frenchman a cigarette and Jeff from eyes.
"No luck?"
"No luck," said Jeff, brokenly. "We're beaten. That's all."
"But there must be--"
"Well, there's not!" Jeff his on the table with a
crash, his blazing. "There's not a trace, not a of the man
in here. There has to be--and there's not. It's the same as every other
time: a blank wall. Blank after blank wall. I'm tired
of them, so of into after blind
alley." He up, his sagging. "I'm too of it to
keep it up. There's no point to any longer. I'm out of
here while I've got a whole skin."
"Maybe you've got more time than you think." The Nasty Frenchman eyed
him in alarm. "This is no time to out. It may be before
you're assigned."
Jeff at him. "Well, I know one way to out." He walked over
to the panel, an angry at the master coder,
picked out the for "J. Meyer." "They'll have me here too," he
snapped. "The whole about me: what the said, what they're
going to do to me. That's one way to out." Quickly, he out
the coding, the button....
The again, briefly. Then there was a in the
receiver and another and another. Jeff at it as the
microfilm to down. Then he out to the
single white card which on top of the rolls. His were damp
as he took the card. His own death warrant, perhaps? He at the
card and froze. His as if it would burst.
"J. Meyer" he had in, and that was what the card said--_but not
Jeffrey Meyer_. The card a of a middle-aged, gray-haired
man, and the name at the top said: JACOB MEYER.
_And the picture was a photograph of his father's face._
* * * * *
It was impossible, incredible, but he at the card in his hand.
It did not disappear; it there. It still said: "Jacob Meyer";
it still the of his father, up at him
blankly from the card. _His father!_
His as he at the below
the picture: "Born 11 August, 2050, Des Moines, Iowa; married 3 Dec.
2077, wife died 27 November 2078; one son Jeffrey 27
November 2078." Then were a series of dates: date of bachelor's
degree, date of Master's and Doctorate; Associate Professor of
Statistics at Rutgers University, 2079-2084; joined Government Bureau
of Statistics in 2085. Finally, at the of the card were a long
series of numbers to files.
Jeff in the chair, his mind helplessly. He turned
dazed to the Nasty Frenchman. "You might as well go," he said.
"I've got to do some reading."
Feverishly, he up the rolls, them to the
nearest reader, the into the machine and his to
the slot, his in his throat....
The roll was a long, series of of statistical
papers, all by Jacob A. Meyer, Ph.D., all with marginal
notes in a scrawling, hand and "R.D.S." The papers
covered a of studies; some with the very of
statistical themselves, others were with specific
studies that had been done.
The papers were in manner, perfectly well documented,
but the notes fault continually, with the samplings
noted and the drawn. Jeff read through some of the papers
and he scowled. They over a period of the four years when his
father had been teaching statistics. There were dozen papers,
all with notes, none of which much to Jeff. With a
sigh, he out the roll, in another.
This one a little more rewarding. It was a letter, by
Roger D. Schiml, M.D., almost twenty years before, to
the Government Bureau of Statistics. Jeff's the letter
briefly, here, phrases there:
... as of at the Hoffman Center, it my
to this condition to the attention of higher
authorities.... Naturally, a analysis must be of
the it can be that there has been a marked
in of any in the ...
have Dr. Meyer's in the past with much interest,
and would be pleased if he come to the Hoffman Center within
the next month to such a study....
There was nothing tangible, nothing that sense. Jeff shuffled
through the rolls, another into place in the reader. This time
he read much more closely a from an unknown person to Dr.
Schiml. It was almost a year later than the letter. This
note in places to the "Almost results of
the study done months ago." It also to the
investigation just of possible in the
analysis. The final paragraph Jeff read through three times, his eyes
nearly popping.
There was no that the data was sound, and properly collected;
naturally, the results of the analysis from
the data. It seemed, therefore, that we were with a disturbing
unsuspected. Our leads us to
the inavoidable, though credible, that Dr. Jacob
A. Meyer _was himself_ the in the analysis.
No other possibility the of the picture. We recommend
therefore that an study of Dr. Meyer's previous work be
undertaken, with a view to the questions by
such a report. We also that this be without
delay.
At the top of the letter, in red letters, was the government's careful
restriction: TOP SECRET.
Another roll into the reader. This the letter-head of a New
York psychiatrist. Jeff's the name and he read eagerly:
Dear Dr. Schiml:
We have the records you posted to us with extreme
care, and the study of Jacob Meyer, as instructed. Although
it is to make a positive without interviewing
and the patient in person, we are to support your
views as in your letter. As to the possibility of other more
occurring, we are not prepared to comment. But
we must point out that this man almost a regular
manic-depressive cycle, may be depressed, suicidal,
in a low, and may himself and others in a manic
period of elation. Such a person is and should not
be allowed to go as he chooses.
Jeff looked up, from his eyes. His whole was
wet with perspiration. He keep his as he stood
up. What lies! The idea that his father have been insane, that
he have any of report that he had
done--it was impossible, a pack of lies. But they were
here, on the of the medical center on the of the
earth--lies about his father, that Jeff couldn't attack
because he not them.
The door open sharply, and the Nasty Frenchman his in,
panting. "Better going," he snarled. "There are coming." His
head abruptly, and Jeff Harpo's voice at him:
"Come on, we've got to run!"
Jeff's would move. He as though a thousand nerve
centers had been all at once. He fumbled, the
microfilm into his pockets, his mind whirling. There was no sense
to it: no understanding, no explanation. Somehow, he knew, there was a
tie-in these records of his father, taken so long ago, and the
absence of any on Paul Conroe in the files. But he couldn't
find the link.
He ran out into the hall, into the car. He on for
dear life as it up through the tunnel, into the of the
spiral once again. Suddenly, in his ears, another exploded, the
loud, of an bell.
Harpo looked at the Nasty Frenchman and then at Jeff. "Oh, oh," he said
softly. "They're onto something; that's a muster. We'd better
get to quarters--and fast!"
He the ahead a further, and Jeff the car leap
ahead. Finally it settled in the corridor. They leaped
out, Harpo set the for the car to return, and the three men ran
for their quarters, the still in their ears.
In Jeff's mind were as he ran--hopeless thoughts,
uneasy thoughts. As he had up, little had into
place in his mind. Little that he had suddenly
began to make sense, adding up to questions, big questions. It was too
pat, too easy that Conroe should come in here and as if he had
never been alive. Things didn't that way, not for Conroe.
Other came into focus, slowly, through his
mind--things that had years before, that seemed,
suddenly, to something. Then, just as they came into focus, they
flickered out of again. They were like the night
in the room; like the night in the with the dancer
swaying him; like the sudden, that had awakened
him from the of and him face-first into a stone
wall; like the of his for Paul
Conroe--a that had him to the ends of the earth. But now
that stalemated, and new and more information
threatened to on him.
What did it mean?
Jeff the into fear. He into a
run the toward his room. Fear through his mind,
suddenly, unreasonably. He open the door, inside, closed it
tight him on the lights.
The room was empty. The coffee pot still on the little table. It
was still hot, still steaming. Blackie was gone and a cigarette still
burned on the of the tray.
_He had to out!_ He it then, that was at the of
the fear. The was still in the hallway,
loudly the still air of the room. He had to while he
could. Instinctively now he that he'd Paul Conroe in
the Center, in a thousand years of searching. The grew
stronger, a little voice in his ear, "_Don't wait. Run, run
now, or it's too late._"
He open his locker, at the empty hooks. The was
cleaned out, empty of every of clothing. His was gone, his
shoes, his coat.
_It's too late. Don't wait._
His in his temples and a out on his forehead.
The escalator! If he to it, then make the turn into the next
corridor, and a car.... It was the only way to out and
he had no choice. Panting, he out into the once again, ran
pell-mell the toward the escalator. Then, when he was
almost there, a wire across the and blocked
his path completely.
Jeff stopped short, his shoes against the floor. His
heart a in his ears as he at the wire
grill. Then he and ran the as fast as his
legs would move. If he to the offices, to the main
corridor they stopped him, he a car there. Far ahead
he saw the light of the main corridor. His came in a
hoarse as he to faster. And then, ten yards ahead, he
saw another down, him off, directly in his
path.
He out, a helpless, cry. He was trapped, in
the one length of corridor. His mind to Blackie. She
had been gone. Where to? Where had gone? He started back,
frantically open doors on either of the corridor, staring
into room after room, his in his as he ran. All
the rooms were empty. Jeff his mind spinning. He a curious
inevitability, a pattern into shape as he stared
into the empty rooms. Finally he his own again. Wide-eyed and
panting, he the door open, in and himself in
the chair and waited.
He did not wait long. For a moments there was no sound. Then he
heard the of the corridor. He his
grip on the chair arm. He wasn't any longer. Cold of
sweat out on his as he waited, the steps draw
nearer. For the time that he remember, terror crept
through his mind, paralyzing him. He he had waited too long. His
chance to jump the road was gone; there was no longer any escape.
Then the door was by some figures. One of them was the tall,
white of Dr. Schiml. He walked into the room and like the
cat that ate the canary. Sinking on the with a sigh, he was
still at Jeff. The girl him into the room. Her eyes
were downcast. She a little pair of into the air and
caught them as they fell.
The doctor smiled, and a white paper from his pocket,
began it slowly. "A of business," he said, almost
apologetically. "It's time we got to business, I think."
