Some say scientists should keeptheir noses out of politics. Bensonsays it’s to prevent damage to theirolfactory senses. Benson’s a physicist.
I’ve known Allan Benson for along time. In fact I’ve bodyguardedhim for years and think I understandhim better than he does himself.And when he shook securityat White Sands, my boss didn’thesitate to tell me that knowingBenson as I do I certainly shouldn’thave let him skip off. Or crispwords to that effect.
The pressure was on. Bensonwas seeking a new fuel—or a wayof compressing a known fuel—tocarry a torchship to Mars. His losscould mean a delay of decades. Weknew he’d been close, but not howclose.
My nickname’s Monk. I’vefought it, certainly, but what canyou do when a well-wishing mothernames you after a wealthy uncleand your birth certificate saysNeander Thalberg? As early ashigh school some bright punditnoted the name’s similarity to thatof a certain prehistoric man. Unfortunatelythe similarity is not in name alone: I’m muscular, stooped,and, I must admit, not handsomehero model material.
Well, maybe the nickname’sjustified, but still, Al Benson didn’thave to give the crowning insult.And yet, if he hadn’t, there probablywouldn’t be a torchship stern-endingon Mars just about now.
C. I. (Central Intelligence, thatis) at the Sands figured Bensonwould head for New York. Whichis why the boss sent me here. Iregistered in a hotel in the 50’sand, figuring that whatever Bensonintended to do would have spectacularresults, I kept the stereoon News.
Benson’s wife hadn’t yieldedmuch info. Sure she described theclothes he was wearing and saidhe’d taken nothing else except anartist’s case. What was in that wasanybody’s guess; his private lab issuch a jumble nobody could tellwhat, if anything, was missing.
C. I. knew his political feelings.Seems he’d been talking wild aboutthe upcoming presidential electionand had sworn he’d nip the draft-Cadiganmovement in the bud.Cadigan’s Mayor of New YorkCity. He’s anti-space. In fact, Cadigan’santi just about everything inscience except intercontinental missiles.Strictly for defense, of course.Cadigan says.
A weathercaster was makingrash promises on the stereo whenthe potray dinged. The potray?I certainly wasn’t expecting mail.Only C. I. knew where I was andthey’d have closed-circuited me onvisio if they wanted contact.
The potray dinged and therewas a package in it.
Now matter transference I knew.It put mailmen out of business.There’s a potray in every domicileand you can put things in it, dialthe destination and they com