Assignment to Disaster by Edward S. Aarons Page B

causes high mental strain among the staff, and a great deal of philosophical theorizing, you see. Calvin was growing steadily moodier, doubting the wisdom of our work. He was not alone in this, but others managed to keep their attitudes and fears under control. Calvin did not. He ran away. I am sure that when he is found, it will turn out to be no more than a gesture toward escape from reality."
    John Padgett limped back to his instruments and studied them for a moment. Then he returned to Durell. His dark eyes burned with a fanatical light. "Whatever happens, nothing must interfere with the scheduled firing of Cyclops. It is my responsibility, above that of the military personnel here, above Mike Larabee's security forces, above everything except for certain people in Washington. I designed Cyclops, I helped to build it. It will succeed. It must succeed! I have put aside all personal feelings in regard to my brother. Whatever must be done about him I leave to your discretion. And now, if you will excuse me…"
    Durell felt strangely disappointed. He did not know why he felt this way. Perhaps he was tired, he thought. This day had stretched out interminably. Then he looked up as Mike Larabee crossed the room, glanced at his watch, and tore a big sheet off a wall calendar.
    It was past midnight. It was now the second day of July.

Chapter Ten
    He had no real difficulty getting a room at the Salamander. Larabee had not exaggerated about the place. His room was a cottage, discreetly apart from the others. He stopped in Las Tiengas, which apparently knew no curfews, and rented a car, then bought a suitcase and some clothing in the shops on Cactus Street. Larabee did not come with him. Larabee made it plain he did not like the idea of Durell's working independently on the problem.
    The town was built on fiats slightly north of the center of a forty-mile bowl rimmed by jagged buttes. Cactus Street was noisy, lined with bars, lurid with neon, swarming with military uniforms. Aloof from all this, like an oasis of plush luxury, was the Salamander.
    There was a main building surrounded by stately palms and green lawns and oleanders. There was a huge swimming pool, where some people still sat about in robes at tables under umbrellas. There was a restaurant, a gambling room, tennis courts, squash courts, a private auditorium for motion pictures, several shops, sun decks. The Salamander was a world unto itself. Once here, the privileged guest need not stir or want for anything. The cottages ranged in irregular patterns among more palm trees and shrubbery, discreetly located along private paths. The clerk's desk in the lobby of the main building was like an upholstered doughnut, and the clerk went with the decor. His eyes at first dismissed Durell briefly.
    "Sorry, sir, we have absolutely nothing without a prior reservation."
    "I see," Durell said. "Then would you have a reservation scheduled for tomorrow evening in the name of Miss Deirdre Padgett?"
    The clerk looked toward a winding, surrealistic staircase to a filigreed balcony above. A tall blonde woman was up there, talking to a dark-haired man in a dinner jacket. There were not many people in the lobby, but they all bore the same stamp: a deep tan, a haziness about the eyes from too much liquor and rich food, a poised and assured air of speaking and carriage. The clerk jerked his eyes back from the blonde woman above.
    "Just a moment, sir. I'll see."
    He slid out of the plush doughnut desk and walked up the airy staircase as if he wanted to run. He spoke to the blonde. She looked down at Durell. Her eyes were pale, either gray or blue, he could not tell which. Her oval face was darkly tanned, and her lipstick looked orange in the subdued lobby light. The handsome dark-haired man said something quickly and turned away. The blonde woman nodded to the desk clerk. Durell felt someone watching him and looked around and saw only a small, old Mexican in a red jacket and white trousers, a