A Century of Progress by Fred Saberhagen Page A

arrived downstairs in search of some breakfast he found the dining room deserted. Finding his way into the kitchen, he discovered a pot of coffee on the stove, but no other signs of activity. He poked around in cabinets, getting out a few utensils and some instant oatmeal, and made himself a bowl of it. If they wanted him they could find him, and he was a touch hungry; breakfast was usually his favorite meal. He made two pieces of toast and then discovered he could eat only one. Again he thought vaguely that today was like the morning of a combat mission. Fear was present, but something else too, something to be savored. And where was Andy Burns this morning? Already out on the ramp and loading ammo?
    He finished eating and cleaned up after himself a little, as much as he felt like cleaning up. Then he picked up the traveling bag that he’d carried downstairs, and headed in the direction of the garage housing the old truck. He’d thought he’d heard a voice or two from that direction while he was in the kitchen.
    The first thing he noticed on entering the garage was that the Dodge truck had somehow been turned, so now it faced the overhead doors. It was still the only vehicle in sight. A hunched, white-coated form that looked like that of Dr. Harbin was doing something inside the cab while Ginny, in worker’s coveralls this morning, stood outside talking to him.
    She saw Norlund as soon as he entered, and came over to him. Her manner as she looked him over was all business. “You look okay,” she decided.
    Norlund asked, “What’s been decided about my partner? Who do I get?”
    “You’ll hire someone there. Follow the rules we gave you yesterday in choosing someone. None of our people here can be spared—Andy with his artificial arm is certainly not a candidate. Now let’s run through some of the procedures on the machinery again.”
    Norlund still hadn’t forgotten anything from yesterday’s lessons; he had no trouble in playing back to Ginny his operating knowledge of the gear in the back of the truck. As for the ultimate purpose of it all, he hadn’t been taught anything and he didn’t ask now.
    Ginny was unfolding a paper. “Here’s a map of the approximate route that you should drive once you get there. I think you might be able to finish the job in one day. Here are shown the approximate locations where the recording devices must go. Of course, you have to use the equipment to decide on the exact best positioning.”
    Presently Harbin came to take a turn at catechizing Norlund. From time to time Harbin or Ginny would drop other tasks and go over to the wall at the far side of the garage, where there was a phone. Whatever they learned in their brief phone conversations didn’t do their morale any good, for Norlund could see strain growing progressively in their faces.
    Then Harbin, returning from one of these conversations, had suddenly acquired a gunbelt strapped round his waist, over his long white lab coat. The doctor silently handed a similar belt to Ginny, who accepted it without comment and calmly put it on. Norlund thought that the weapons in the holsters looked something like Israeli machine pistols that he’d seen on television or somewhere; not that he was an expert on any kind of modern firearms.
    He waited for a moment, but when it was clear that they weren’t going to volunteer any explanation of the weapons, he commented: “Doesn’t look good, hey?”
    Ginny looked up from a checklist that she was going over. “Doesn’t feel too good, either, Alan. But you know I never promised you that this job was going to be perfectly safe.”
    “I never really suspected that it would be all that safe. And I know exactly what you promised me and what you didn’t.”
    She was about to answer, but Harbin—on the phone again—was gesturing violently, calling her into conference.
    In a few moments she was back. In a voice more tightly controlled than ever she ordered: “Here, Alan, take these