Read Ebook: Stroke of Genius by Garrett Randall Phillips R Illustrator

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Ebook has 195 lines and 9739 words, and 4 pages

d that you use my crew instead of your own," Klythe explained. "Perhaps the parallel isn't too good--I know nothing of interstellar commerce--but that may get the idea across."

"I sympathize," said Stratford. "If there's anything I can do--?"

"Nothing," said Klythe, smiling. "It isn't fatal. Now--" He rubbed his hands briskly. "Unless there's further business, perhaps you'd like a little something? I know I do; I have a cold kink in my guts."

The major grinned. "Liaison officers are permitted to drink on duty. Pour away."

Klythe poured. As he studiously watched the stream of liquor flow into one of the cups, he said: "Major, may I ask--ah--just how much danger there is to Earth?"

The major appeared to consider this for a moment before answering. "At the moment, none. We know that they can not trace us back here, and they're quite a long distance away. Without violation of confidence, I can say that the distance is several thousand light years."

"Thank you." Klythe passed the cups around.

Crayley eyed the major suspiciously. He had answered the question too readily. Was he lying? No. What, then? The major ran the tip of his tongue over his lips, and Crayley understood. He was going to trade information for information.

Stratford swirled his drink around in his cup and looked at the whirlpool it made. "Mr. Klythe, may I ask you a--a question?" It was properly worded, hesitation and all.

"I shall not be offended by your question," Klythe replied with the standard friendly acceptance of the gambit, "If you will not be offended by my reply."

The major whirled his cup once more, then downed its contents quickly. "I--uh--understand you took the Big Gamble." He paused to see how his opening would be accepted.

Klythe nodded. "I was honored to be chosen; how could I refuse?"

Crayley was enjoying the scene immensely. Both of the men were distinctly uncomfortable.

"I'm afraid I would have been--uh, well--afraid."

"Perhaps I was," Klythe said softly. "But I don't know. That whole year of my life is gone. That's why they call it the Big Gamble, you know; you bet one year of your life against the chance that you'll get an additional century or two. I don't know whether I was frightened or not."

"I'm very happy for you," said the major, closing the subject.

Crayley held out his cup for another drink.

The Big Gamble had paid off for Berin Klythe. The year-long physical reconstruction had not resulted in his death, as it had for so many. But Klythe's gamble hadn't paid off for Lewis Crayley.

Klythe held the Directorship. Crayley was in line for the position. Klythe would never leave of his own accord. It came out as a simple equation in symbolic logic.

Therefore, Klythe had to go.

The three men finished their drinks; the major shook hands all around, and left quietly.

Klythe's eyes narrowed as he looked at the door through which the Space Force officer had departed. "Running in their own recording technicians on us, eh, Lew? Well, by God, we'll see about that! They'll be working under me; I'll make 'em jump!"

"Jump it is, Berin." Crayley's voice was quiet, but his blood was singing.

The Space Force Research Command team delivered the original two days later. It was obvious that the thing was not a drive generator. The sub-nucleonic converter had been elongated along the acceleration axis and reduced a bit in diameter. Evidently the Space Force wanted a high-velocity beam without much actual volume of energy.

The thing looked like an over-decorated length of sewer pipe instead of having the normal converter's barrel shape.

Crayley himself had accepted delivery of the original. He wanted to have a good look at it before Klythe did. He prowled around it, a handful of schematic prints in his hand, checking the symbols on the schematic against the reality of the converter before him.

For the first time in his life, he wished he knew the theory behind a converter. That wasn't his job, of course, but he had a hunch it would be useful knowledge.

The Space Force technicians stood off to one side, waiting respectfully for Crayley to finish his examination. Crayley could feel their eyes on him, and he knew full well that the respectful attitude was only superficial; a Space Force man has respect only for the officers above him.

When he was thoroughly satisfied that he could learn nothing more from a superficial examination of the machine, he turned to the technicians. "All right, let's go upstairs. Mr. Klythe wants to talk to you."

It was the incident in the hall of the executive offices that decided Lewis Crayley once and for all that he now had not only a motive but a method for murdering Berin Klythe.

As the recording technicians were filing into the briefing room, Berin stepped out of the lift tube and headed toward the door. Several other engineering executives of North American Sub-nucleonics followed him.

Klythe started to walk in through the door of the conference room, and one of the Space Force techs stepped on his toe. It wasn't painful, and it wasn't done on purpose; the tech was quite polite when he said, "Excuse me, sonny."

Klythe said nothing, but his eyes blazed with sudden anger, and his face grew crimson as he tried successfully to suppress it.

Behind his face, Crayley grinned gleefully. He rubbed his nose with a concealing hand.

Inside the room, as they all seated themselves in the chairs, Crayley watched the face of the man who had done the toe-mashing. He was solidly-built, young, good-looking in an ugly sort of way, sensitive and intelligent, as a waldo recorder had to be. When Klythe walked up behind the desk and said: "Good morning, gentlemen: I'm Berin Klythe," the tech's eyes opened a little wider for a fraction of a second, but there was no further reaction. Crayley was satisfied; he turned to watch Klythe.

Klythe was furious, but there was nothing he could do about it. The crimson in his face had died, to be replaced by the faint pallor of anger.

"You may ask me questions later," he said bluntly. "Right now, I'd like to ask you one. Which one of you is co-ordinator here?" One of the men stood. "Your name? Russ? Mr. Russ, may I ask why the Space Force felt that our recording men were not capable of doing this job?"

Russ fumbled uncomfortably. Finally: "Well, sir, this gadget is of--uh--rather radically new design. Since we, as a team, had built the various designs that led up to this one, our superiors felt that we would have a better working knowledge of the piece. They felt it would save time if we made the recording. I'm sure there was no slight intended to your own recording staff."

"I see," Klythe said coldly. "Very well." He turned his head a fraction and looked directly at Crayley. "Lew, what do you think the Space Force will do next time? Send over their own Director?"

The Space Force men looked embarrassed, and Crayley smiled one-sidedly. Nobody but Klythe could have gotten away with that crack. Berin Klythe had been trained by, and had worked under, no less a person than the great Fenwick Greene, acknowledged Grand Old Man of the profession. Crayley recalled that Fenwick Greene, too, had been offered and had survived the Big Gamble.

Klythe began asking questions about the new unit. His tone was sarcastic, and his manner biting. He spent better than an hour singling each man out for some remark about his ability or lack of it.

When he was finally through, he leaned forward on his desk, his knuckles white. "All right, let's get busy and build this thing! But we'll build it my way, understand?"

None of the technicians said a word.

Klythe turned and headed for the door, followed by Crayley and the other engineers. Silently, the technicians followed after.

The original model of the generator lay on a work table in one of the recording rooms. Around it were the recording stations, the seats and controls each of the techs would occupy.

Klythe waved at the seats. "All right, men--to begin with, each of you occupy your regular team position. Let's get this thing disassembled. I want to see how it goes."

The model was just that--a model. It had been built with ordinary metal and plastic; it could never be energized. The wiring was copper, the casing of steel. But it had been built as carefully and with as great precision as if it had actually been constructed of the fiercely radioactive materials that would go into the production models.

The recorders seated themselves around the hulking object, checking and rechecking the intricate controls of the waldoes they were to operate. Finally, they fitted their hands into the glove pickups and waited, watching Klythe.

"Set?" Klythe asked.

"Set!" they said in one voice.

Klythe tapped his finger on the control board at which he had seated himself. The technicians began to disassemble the model, stripping it down to its last essential part, as Klythe watched with a critical eye.

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