Harry Harrison - The Daleth Effect

“Read back the last sentence, will you please?” he said.

“The Prime Minister does appreciate your exceedingly kind communication, and…” His secretary flipped the page in her steno book and waited, pencil poised.

“And has asked me to thank you for the good wishes you expressed. He feels that it was very gracious of you to offer access to all of your advanced technologies in space engineering and rocketry, in addition to the use of your extended network of tracking stations around the globe. However, since we have little or nothing that we could contribute to a rocketry program, we feel that it would be unfair of us to enter into any agreements at this time. That’s all. The usual salutations and close. Would you read the whole thing back to me?”

He swung his chair around and looked out of the window while she read. It was dark, the streets empty with the rush-hour crowds long gone. Seven o’clock. Too late for dinner. He would have to stop for something before he went home. He nodded his head as the pontifical weight of the words rolled out. All in order, just right. Thanks a lot but no thanks. The Soviets would happily turn over all their billions of rubles of useless rocket hardware in exchange for a peek at the Daleth drive. They weren’t getting it. Neither were the Americans, though they seemed to have a stronger case; ties of brotherhood, NATO partners, and the sharing of defense secrets among partners. It had been something to watch the American ambassador getting redder and redder as the Prime Minister ticked off on his fingers ten American major defense projects that the Danes knew nothing at all about. The whole world wanted a cut from the cake.

“That’s fine,” he said when the girl stopped.

“Should I type it up now, sir?”

“Not on your life. First thing in the morning, and have it on my desk when I get in. Now get home before your family forgets what you look like.”

“Thank you, sir. Good night.”

“Good night.”

She click-clicked out, her high heels sounding clearly across the outer office in the silence of the empty ministry building. The door slammed. He yawned and stretched, then began to stuff papers into his briefcase. He sealed it and, before he put his coat on, phoned down for his car. The very last thing, he checked the file cabinets to see that they were all locked, and gave the lock on his safe an extra spin. That was enough. He set his big black hat squarely on his head, picked up his briefcase and left. It had been a long day and he was tired; he walked with a heavy, measured pace.

The slow footsteps passed by outside the door and Horst Schmidt shifted in the darkness. His knees were stiff and sore, while his legs burned like fire from standing still so long. He was getting a little old for this kind of thing. But it paid so well. In fact he looked forward to being paid exceedingly well for this night’s work. He lifted his arm and examined the glowing face of his watch. 7:15. They should all be gone by now. The two sets of footsteps he had heard were the only ones in over a half an hour. Perhaps he should wait longer, but his legs wouldn’t let him. Over three hours standing in this damn supply closet. He took up his thick briefcase and felt for the lock, turned it silently and opened the door a crack, blinking at the sudden light. The hall was empty when he looked out.

No security these Danes, no security at all. He closed the door behind him and walked, swiftly and soundlessly on his gum soles, to the office of the Minister of Foreign Affairs. The door was unlocked! They almost invited one in. A name—taken from the phone book—and an imaginary appointment had gotten him by the concierge at the front door. They had not even asked for a card, though he had one ready, but had settled simply for the false name he gave. Danes! The Minister’s private office was unlocked as well—and the door did not even have a bolt on the inside. He opened his briefcase and, feeling in the darkness, took out a wooden wedge which he jammed into the crack between the door and the frame.

There were two thin, but completely opaque, plastic sheets in his case, and he draped these over the door and window, sealing them down with sticking tape. Only then did he turn on the powerful torch. The files first, there were sure to be a lot of interesting items in the files. The Daleth drive was of course the main interest, but there were plenty of other things he would like to know, information that could be fed to his employers, bit by bit, to assure a steady income. Spreading out his tools, he selected a chrome steel jimmy with a razor-sharp end. One twist of this opened the file cabinet as though it were a sardine can. With quick precision he flipped through the folders. A little pile of paper grew on the table next to him.

The safe would be a little more difficult—but not very. An antique. He studied it for a few moments, pulling the wrinkles out of his thin gloves as he considered the quickest way to open it.

Because of the soundproofing on it the drill was bulkier than most. But it was geared down and powerful. His bits were diamond tipped. He slapped a handful of clay onto the lock and pushed the bit into it: this would absorb most of the drilling sound. There was just the thinnest whine and vibration when he switched it on. It took only moments to hole through the steel plate.

What came next could be dangerous, but Schmidt was very experienced in taking care of his own skin. With Teutonic neatness he put all of his tools back into the case before taking off his gloves and laying them on the top of the safe. Then, with infinite caution, he tugged on the string around his neck and pulled, up out of his shirt collar, the tiny bottle that was suspended from the string. The rubber cork was jammed in tightly and he had to use his teeth to prize it loose. Gently, ever so gently, he poured the contents of the bottle, drop by drop, into the little dam he had made in the clay, so it could run down inside the mechanism of the lock. When it was half empty he stopped and resealed the bottle, then carried it to the far end of the room. He used his handkerchief to wipe the glass free of all fingerprints, then rested the bottle on the wadded-up handkerchief on the floor, tucked neatly into the corner of the floor. The handkerchief had been purchased earlier in the day from an automatic machine.

He sighed, relaxing a bit, when he stood up. He had made it himself, so he knew that it was good nitroglycerine. But it was unreliable stuff at best, ana n nice to be around. He put his gloves back on.

There was a rug on the office floor, but it was tacked down and would be too much trouble to try and lift. However the shelves were filled with books; thick tomes, annual reports, weighty, important things. Just what he needed. With silent haste he stripped the shelves, piling the books in a pyramid against the door and sides of the safe. He had left an opening in front of the lock. The very last thing, he slid the tiny metal tube of a detonator into the hole and unrolled the wire across the room. Then he sealed the open space with the thickest of the books.

“Langsam… langsam… ” he muttered, and crouched behind the desk. The building was silent. There was a small outlet that he had built into the case of the flashlight. The two-pronged plug on the end of the wire fitted neatly into it. Schmidt bent lower and jammed in the plug.

The explosion was a muffled blow that shook the floor. The pile of books began to topple, and he ran to catch them. He stopped most of them, but Annual Fisheries Report 1948 — 1949 landed with a resounding thud. Smoke curled up and the lock mechanism was a twisted ruin. With careful speed he began moving the books so the safe door could be opened—then froze as heavy footsteps sounded in the outer office. They came closer, right up to the door, and the handle turned.