Frederik Pohl - The Cool War

By the fourth day after his return Hake did not look much better, but some of the aches were dwindling. In a way, the beatings were an asset They had made Jessie Tunman willing to keep everyone away from him, though she expressed herself baffled that he was continually inventing excuses to go out: to the supermarket, to get a morning paper, to mail a letter, to drive his new car for fun and practice. “I can do all that for you, Horny,” she protested. “All but drive that silly yellow car, anyway, and that’s wasting power!” When he replied that he needed the exercise or wanted the fresh air she gave up, unsatisfied and unreconciled. It didn’t matter. He had to get out to do what he needed to do.

And when at last, on the twentieth try, each one from a different public phone, he finally found The Incredible Art at home, he cried, “Thank God!”

“Who is this? Horny? What’s the matter?”

“Nothing’s the matter, Art—well, it’s complicated. Are you alone in the house? Good. I’ll be over to see you in five minutes.” And actually he made it in three. The tapes he had made on the jetty in Asbury Park were burning holes in his pocket.

The home of The Incredible Art was almost invisible from the street—not much less so when you walked up to the front door, for Art had built it into the side of a hill. A concrete casting in the shape of a magician’s peaked hat was beside the door, and when Hake pressed the bell it lit up and croaked, “Who dares approach the sacred cave of The Incredible Art?” Hake didn’t have to answer. The door was open before the tape recording finished, and Art’s skinny, blond face was peering worriedly out. “My God, Horny,” he said.

“I had an accident,” Hake said. “I’ve been thinking about printing up cards to give out.”

“I never thought you’d turn into a brawler at your age. How about a cup of tea?”

“Maybe later.” Hake pushed past Art into the house and closed the door. He reached into his shirt and pulled out the sealed packet of tape cassettes; he had not wanted to be seen carrying them inside. “I want a big favor, please, Art.”

The magician pursed his lips, looked at the sealed packet. “I bet that isn’t home-made cookies.”

“It’s something I want you to keep for me. In a really safe place. If you hear I’m dead, or if I don’t come back and ask for them in thirty days, then open up these tapes and play them. And please don’t say anything about this, don’t even say you saw me, to anybody at all.”

“Oh, wow.” Art sat down, tugging at his blond beard. He looked at the package of tapes without taking them. “Horny, what are you into?”

“I just can’t tell you, Art. Of course—” stiffly—“if you’re afraid of trouble—”

“It ain’t the trouble, Horny, it’s the curiosity.” The magician leaned forward to take the package from Hake’s hand. He shook it, listened to it, then tossed it back and forth from hand to hand, watching Hake’s face. “You know,” he mentioned, “you’re an amateur at sealing up packages. I could get into this and reseal it and you’d never know the difference.”

“Just please don’t, Art.”

The magician nodded. “One question. Why me?”

“Because I trust you. Also because you’re always doing TV and radio appearances; you’ll know how to use the tapes if you have to. I should tell you that it might not be—” He hesitated. He had been going to say “easy.” Candor made him finish, “safe.”

Art whistled thoughtfully. He stood up and began to walk around the room, juggling the packet. “What about that cup of tea?” he asked over his shoulder.

“All right, but please don’t drop them.”

Art put a kettle on the stove and then turned around, spreading empty hands. “Drop what?” he grinned.

“Where—”

“They’re where they’ll be okay for a while. I’ll find a better place, but even you won’t know where it is. Are you sure you can’t give me even the teensiest hint?”

“I’m sure, Art. And I’m not finished, I’m sorry to say. I need to find somebody, and I’m hoping you can help me with your computer.”

“Oh?”

“It’s a woman. Her name’s Leota Pauket. P-A-U-K-E-T.”

“Uh-huh. Of course you can’t tell me much about her?”

“Well, last I saw of her she was in Rome, but she’s an American. From somewhere in the midwest. I think.”

“Splendid, Horny!” Art thought for a minute. “As I see it, you have two ways to go. First we could try telephone listings. I can start a search program to query every exchange in the midwest for a listing for this Leota Pauket. Figure fifteen seconds a directory, maybe a couple thousand directories—you could complete it in a day or so. Wouldn’t cost anything, which is a big advantage—information queries are free. But it doesn’t work if she doesn’t have a phone.”

“What’s the other way?”

“That’s harder. You have to get into the memories for Social Security or the Bureau of the Census, something like that. I can’t do that, but I’ve got some slippery friends. They might help.”

“As far as that’s concerned,” Hake said cautiously, “I think I could handle that part.”

“You what?”

Hake said defensively, “I’m sorry, Art, but that’s part of what I can’t talk about. However. I’m not real sure she’s anywhere near America; last I heard she was in the, uh, entourage of a sheik named Hassabou.”

Hake’s expression cleared. “Why didn’t you say so in the first place? AH you need is celebrity service—come on, I’ll set it up.” Hake followed into another room, where Art sat before his computer terminal, typed rapidly for a second and then sat back. “How much of this stuff do you want?” he asked. “Here, sit down. Slow it down with this thing here if it’s going too fast for you.” And it was; the machine was racing through line after line of printout, far more information than he could actually use. The sheik’s name was Sheik Badawey Al-Nadim Abd Hassabou, and every directory of the rich and the famous had something about him. The sheik’s wealth was estimated at more than three hundred million dollars, exclusive of family holdings. The sheik’s home was in Rome, Wad Madani, Beverly Hills, Edinburgh, a place called Abu Magnah or his yacht— depending on the season, and on the sheik’s mood. The sheik’s interests seemed to be the three S’s: sex, surfing and i sports cars. The sheik’s family, like the families of most of the oil Arabs, had long since left the Persian Gulf, no longer held the worthless oil leases, had their money in Argentine cattle ranches and Chicago real estate, but saw no reason to spend much time in those places when the fleshpots of Europe and California were so much more fun. The sheik was fifty-one years old, but in astonishingly good health. Hake gloomily accepted the truth of that part of it. The man in the auction room had obviously kept fit.

The information came from gossip columns, financial reports and various who’s-who directories. None of it mentioned an acquisition of the sheik’s named Leota Pauket, of course. Hake had not expected it would.

He sat back. “Enough,” he said. “Does it mention where he is right now?”

“Hold on.” Art punched out orders, and the machine typed out: Presently in Abu Magnah.

“Abu Magnah?” Hake tried to place the town and couldn’t. He got down the old red atlas and looked for Abu Magnah. It was not on the map. It took Art inquiries to the information services of three Arab consulates, the National Geographic Society and the cartographical division of the public library before he was able to locate it. Armed with latitude and longitude Hake carefully marked a cross on the map and sat back to regard it. Squarely in the Empty Quarter. Hundreds of miles from anything more metropolitan than a flock of sheep. Hassabou liked his privacy.