Short Fiction - Poul Anderson (books to read for self improvement .TXT) 📗

four of the old American states met there, back when they were still significant political units. For a while, in the 20th century, it was overrun with uranium hunters, who made small impression on its tilted emptiness. It was still a favorite vacation area, and the resorts were lost in that great huddle of mountains and desert. You could have a lot of privacy here.

Gliding down over the moon-ghostly Pueblo ruins of Mesa Verde, Radek peered through the windscreen. There, ahead. Lights glowed around the walls, spread across half a mesa. Inside them was a parkscape of trees, lawns, gardens, arbors, cottage units⁠ ⁠… the Institute housed its people well. There were four large buildings at the center, and Radek noted gratefully that several windows were still shining in them. Not that he had any compunctions about getting the great Dr. Lang out of bed, but⁠—

He ignored the public landing field outside the walls and set his boat down in the paved courtyard.

As he climbed out, half a dozen guards came running. They were husky men in blue uniforms, armed with stunners, and the dim light showed faces hinting they wouldn’t be sorry to feed him a beam. Radek dropped to the ground, folded his arms, and waited. The breath from his nose was frosty under the moon.

“What the hell do you want?”

The nearest guard pulled up in front of him and laid a hand on his shock gun. “Who the devil are you? Don’t you know this is private property? What’s the big idea, anyway?”

“Take it easy,” advised Radek. “I have to see Dr. Lang at once. Emergency.”

“You didn’t call for an appointment, did you?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“All right, then⁠—”

“I didn’t think he’d care to have me give my reasons over a radio. This is confidential and urgent.”

The men hesitated, uncertain before such an outrageous violation of all civilized canons. “I dunno, friend⁠ ⁠… he’s busy⁠ ⁠… if you want to see Dr. McCormick⁠—”

“Dr. Lang. Ask him if I may. Tell him I have news about his longevity process.”

“His what?”

Radek spelled it out and watched the man go. Another one made some ungracious remark and frisked him with needless ostentation. A third was more urbane: “Sorry to do this, but you understand we’ve got important work going on. Can’t have just anybody busting in.”

“Sure, that’s all right.” Radek shivered in the thin chill air and pulled his cloak tighter about him.

“Viruses and stuff around. If any of that got loose⁠—You understand.”

Well, it wasn’t a bad cover-up. None of these fellows looked very bright. I.Q. treatments could do only so much, thereafter you got down to the limitations of basic and unalterable brain microstructure. And even among the more intellectual workers⁠ ⁠… how many Barwells were there, handling semi-routine tasks but not permitted to know what really went on under their feet? Radek had a brief irrational wish that he’d worn boots instead of sandals.

The first guard returned. “He’ll see you,” he grunted. “And you better make it good, because he’s one mad doctor.”

Radek nodded and followed two of the men. The nearest of the large square buildings seemed given over to offices. He was led inside, down a short length of glow-lit corridor, and halted while the scanner on a door marked, Lang, Director observed him.

“He’s clean, boss,” said one of the escort.

“All right,” said the annunciator. “Let him in. But you two stay just outside.”

It was a spacious office, but austerely furnished. A telewindow reflected green larches and a sun-spattered waterfall, somewhere on the other side of the planet. Lang sat alone behind the desk, his hands engaged with some papers that looked like technical reports. He was a big, heavy-shouldered man, his hair gray, his chocolate face middle-aged and tired.

He did not rise. “Well?” he snapped.

“My name is Arnold Radek. I’m a news service operator⁠ ⁠… here’s my card, if you wish to see it.”

“Pharaoh had it easy,” said Lang in a chill voice. “Moses only called the seven plagues down on him. I have to deal with your sort.”

Radek placed his fingertips on the desk and leaned forward. He found it unexpectedly hard not to be stared down by the other. “I know very well I’ve laid myself open to a lawsuit by coming in as I did,” he stated. “Possibly, when I’m through, I’ll be open to murder.”

“Are you feeling well?” There was more contempt than concern in the deep tone.

“Let me say first off, I believe I have information about a certain project of yours. One you badly want to keep a secret. I’ve taped a record at my office of what I know and where I’m going. If I don’t get back before 1000 hours, Central Time, and wipe that tape, it’ll be heard by the secretary.”

Lang took an exasperated breath. His fingernails whitened on the sheets he still held. “Do you honestly think we would be so⁠ ⁠… I won’t say unscrupulous⁠ ⁠… so stupid as to use violence?”

“No,” said Radek. “Of course not. All I want is a few straight answers. I know you’re quite able to lead me up the garden path, feed me some line of pap and hustle me out again⁠—but I won’t stand for that. I mentioned my tape only to convince you that I’m in earnest.”

“You’re not drunk,” murmured Lang. “But there are a lot of people running loose who ought to be in a mental hospital.”

“I know.” Radek sat down without waiting for an invitation. “Antiscientific fanatics. I’m not one of them. You know Darrell Burkhardt’s news commentaries? I supply a lot of his data and interpretations. He’s one of the leading friends of genuine science, one of the few you have left.” Radek gestured at the card on the desk. “Read it, right there.”

Lang picked the card up and glanced at the lettering and tossed it back. “Very well. That’s still no excuse for breaking in like this. You⁠—”

“It can’t wait,” interrupted Radek. “There are a lot of lives at stake. Every minute we sit here, there are perhaps a million people dying, perhaps more;