Read Ebook: The railhead at Kysyl Khoto by Lang Allen Kim Schoenherr John Illustrator

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Ebook has 82 lines and 7947 words, and 2 pages

"It wasn't going anywhere," she said. A cryptic statement, but I left it alone.

Well, I took the boss home and kissed her goodnight; and hummed Verdi overtures in the taxi all the way home. In the morning, of course, she'd be the same schoolmarmish dame she'd always been, the government girl in the gray flannel suit. Decorative, but distant.

Back at my cluttered desk the next morning, facing the medley of newspaper clippings and half-baked hypotheses that represented my contribution to Economic Analysis , I felt a cold wave of panic. In six days I'd have to stand at a table decked by admirals and generals, and expose this flimsy structure of Sunday work to their merited contempt.

"Sit down, Franklin," she said, handing me the cigar I'd come for. "You're a babe in the woods so far as Intelligence is concerned--that's with a capital 'I', Frank."

"Thank you, teacher."

"I want the military to take this Ziolkovsky thing and shake it till it falls into shape. But they won't, Frank. Not unless we persuade them that it's important. That's what you're doing, window-dressing to make the big brass buy this and stamp it high-priority. If they had what we've worked from, it would get a 'D' rating. They'd set to work on it once the definitive study of Kirghiz folk-dancing was done. They'd give it to a second Lieutenant to play with Wednesday afternoons and forget it."

"But you think your opinion that the Russians have a spaceship squatting somewhere in the Altais is justification for your twisting a haggle of admirals around your pretty finger?"

"Now I'm a confidence man."

"In good cause, Frank. Tomorrow, after you've made your presentation to the JCS, we'll have dinner together to celebrate. At my place."

At this last prospect, I went back to work with spirits refreshed as no five-cent drink can refresh them.

There were maps on the walls, covered with gray dustsheets as though even the face of Mother Earth was being protected as an American secret. The High Air Force were smoking cigars; the High Navy ran more to pipes; while the Army's big wheels burned nervous yards of cigarettes. Two Waves sat at opposite corners of the big table, their fingers poised for slow dances over their Stenotype key-boards. The brass regarded me, as craggy-faced as though I were suspected of giving Uncle Nikita the keys to Fort Knox. I opened my briefcase, set the model on the floor, and launched into my story.

"You've doubtless heard echoes through channels of recent activity in the Tuvinian Division of the Commerce Department's Special Bureau of Economic Analysis," I began.

"Until three weeks ago I was employed at White Sands as an engineer on Project Gargantua. I was transferred to TD/SBEA/DC to make evaluation of information which may make Project Gargantua obsolete." I knew I had my audience when an Air Force general dropped his cigar.

"As you know, the highest peak of the Altai Mountains is 15,000 feet tall, high enough to be of help in rocket research. The capital city of the Tuvinian Autonomous Region is Kysyl Khoto. This city has only recently become involved in industrial activity.

"Analysis of the materials being shipped to Kysyl Khoto, together with specific information furnished from covert sources, leads us to believe that this activity is concerned with rocket research.

"Ninety-five percent," I said. "There's a lot of room for worry in that five percent that's left, though. I hardly think the Russians can have been so devious as to have planted false leads in several hundred of their own journals."

The Chairman nodded. "That will be all, Dr. Huguenard," he said. "I expect we'll be calling upon you later."

That parting note had an ominous ring, I thought, carrying my toy spaceship past the Marine guard. Would they bring handcuffs along next time?

I went in to see Frances. She stood at the window, looking at the cars passing on the avenue. Her hands were together, the knuckles white with strain. "You did it, Frances," I said. "All the big guns of USAF Intelligence are being zeroed on a little town in Central Asia. If they find our guesses were true, we'll start building a moonship, too. That's what you really want, isn't it?"

"Yes, Frank," she said, turning to me. "I want our people to get to the moon. This seems a shoddy way to start, though."

"You're right," I admitted. "An armament race isn't an edifying spectacle. But the discovery of America was inspired more by money-grubbers than by idealists, Frances." I pried her hands apart and took them in mine. "Let's go, Frances. There's no work here today. Do you have the drinks at your place to celebrate our victory?"

She burst into tears. I held her close till she'd sobbed herself calm, ignoring the telephone buzzing on her desk. No one could have business with Frances von Munger more important than mine.

She took the drink and set it untasted on the arm of the sofa. "That's not it, Frank. You know the message from our tourist in Tuva?"

"That note that put the seal of approval on your project? You wrote that yourself, didn't you? The railhead, the spaceship--they all exist only under that golden hair of yours, right?"

Frances stared at me as though she expected me to whip out an Army .45 and cover her with it. "Frank! How do you know?"

"Until I met you, Frances, I thought dreams of space were male dreams. Then I found a girl who'd become an engineer, who'd then given up engineering to go into intelligence work. Curious. Then the business of the secret message from the USSR: instead of turning it over to the Air Force for immediate evaluation, you chose to elaborate on it by means of a technical study, and even got your boss to push through a priority call for me. Curiouser yet."

"If you found out, they can," she said dully.

"I had the advantage of being in love with you, Frances. I've watched you closely, very closely. We'll have a few weeks or months before they discover that you phonied information to goad our men into space. We've got time enough for a honeymoon, Frances."

The phone rang. Damn Alexander Graham Bell! I thought. I picked the monster up and barked hello. It was the Secretary of Commerce. I introduced myself. He deigned to relay his message through me. "Please inform Dr. von Munger that her department has been transferred to the Department of Air Force at White Sands, New Mexico," the Secretary said. "She and you are to report there immediately."

I thanked the man nicely and hung up. Frances was standing now. "We're going to White Sands," I told her. "We're going to help see that the man in the moon is American."

Frances took the drink out of my hand and set it on the bookcase to free my arms for holding her. "Maybe, Frank," she said, "the first man on Mars will be Huguenard. I'll be proud to assist you in that project."

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