Algis Budrys: Who?

“Yes, sir.”

“He was a sector chief himself once, you know. He’s aware of these things.”

“Yes, sir.”

“In a sense, this sort of thing happens to us every day. If anything, it happens to the Soviets even more often. I like to think we take longer to reach these decisions than they do.”

“I suppose so.”

Deptford’s voice was oddly inconclusive in tone, now, as though he were searching his mind for something to say that would round things off. But it was a conversation born to trail away rather than end, and Deptford gave up after only a short pause.

“That’s it, then. Tomorrow you can disperse the team, and you’re to stand by until you’re notified what policy we’re going to pursue with regard to Mar — to the man.”

“All right, sir.”

“Good-bye, Shawn.”

“Good night, Mr. Deptford.” He put the receiver down and rubbed his ear.

Rogers and Finchley sat on the edge of the cot and looked across the tiny room at the faceless man, who was sitting in the one chair beside the small table on which he ate his meals. He had been kept in this room through most of the week, and he had gone out of it only to the laboratory rigged in the next room. He had been given new clothes. He had used the bathroom shower several times without rusting.

“Now, Mr. Martino,” the FBI man was saying politely, “I know we’ve asked before, but have you remembered anything since our last talk?”

One last try, Rogers thought. You always give it one whack for luck before you give up.

He hadn’t yet told anyone on the team that they were all through. He’d asked Finchley to come down here with him because it was always better to have more than one man in on an interrogation. If the subject started to weaken, you could ask questions alternately, bouncing him back and forth between you like a tennis ball, and his head would swing from one man to the other as though he were watching himself in flight.

No — no, Rogers thought, to hell with that. I just didn’t want to come down here alone.

The overhead light winked on polished metal. It was only after a second or two that Rogers realized the man had shaken his head in answer to Finchley’s question.

“No, I don’t remember a thing. I can remember being caught in the blast-it looked like it was coming straight at my face.” He barked a savage, throaty laugh. “I guess it was. I woke up in their hospital and put my one hand up to my head.” His right arm went up to his hard cheek as though to help him remember. It jerked back down abruptly, almost in shock, as if that were exactly what had happened the first time.

“Uh-huh,” Finchley said quickly. “Then what?”

“That night they shot a needle full of some anesthetic into my arm. When I woke up again, I had this arm.”

The motorized limb flashed up and his knuckles rang faintly against his skull. Either from the conducted sound or the memory of that first astonished moment, Martino winced visibly.

His face fascinated Rogers. The two lenses of his eyes, collecting light from all over the room, glinted darkly in their recess. The grilled shutter set flush in his mouth opening looked like a row of teeth bared in a desperate grimace.

Of course, behind that facade a man who wasn’t Martino might be smiling in thin laughter at the team’s efforts to crack past it.

“Lucas,” Rogers said as softly as he could, not looking in the man’s direction, fogging the verbal pitch low and inside.

Martino’s head turned toward him without a second’s hesitation. “Yes, Mr. Rogers?”

Ball One. If he’d been trained, he’d been well trained.

“Did they interrogate you extensively?”

The man nodded. “I don’t know what you’d consider extensive in a case like this of course. But I was up and around after two months; they were able to talk to me for several weeks before that. In all, I’d say they spent about ten weeks trying to get me to tell them something they didn’t already know.”

“Something about the K-Eighty-Eight, you mean?”

“I didn’t mention the K-Eighty-Eight. I don’t think they know about it. They just asked general questions: what lines of investigation we were pursuing — things like that.”

Ball Two.

“Well, look, Mr. Martino,” Finchley said, and Martino’s skull moved uncannily on his neck, like a tank’s turret swiveling. “They went to a lot of trouble with you. Frankly, if we’d gotten to you first there’s a chance you might be alive today, yes, but you wouldn’t like yourself very much.”

The metal arm twitched sharply against the side of the desk. There was an over-long silence. Rogers half expected some bitter answer from the man.

“Yes, I see what you mean.” Rogers was surprised at the complete detachment in the slightly muffled voice. “They wouldn’t have done it if they hadn’t expected some pretty positive return on their investment.”

Finchley looked helplessly at Rogers. Then he shrugged. “I guess you’ve said it about as specifically as possible,” he told Martino.

“They didn’t get it, Mr. Finchley. Maybe because they outdid themselves. It’s pretty tough to crack a man who doesn’t show his nerves.”

A home run, over the centerfield bleachers and still rising when last seen.

Rogers’ calves pushed the cot back with a scrape against the cement floor when he stood up. “All right, Mr. Martino. Thank you. And I’m sorry we haven’t been able to reach any conclusion.”

The man nodded. “So am I.”

Rogers watched him closely. “There’s one more thing. You know one of the reasons we pushed you so hard was because the government was anxious about the future of the K-Eighty-Eight program.”

“Yes?”

Rogers bit his lip. “I’m afraid that’s all over now. They couldn’t wait any longer.”

Martino looked quickly from Rogers to Finchley’s face, and back again. Rogers could have sworn his eyes glowed with a light of their own. There was a splintering crack and Rogers stared at the edge of the desk where the man’s hand had closed on it convulsively.

“I’m not ever going back to work, am I?” the man demanded.

He pushed himself away from the desk and stood as though his remaining muscles, too, had been replaced by steel cables under tension.

Rogers shook his head. “I couldn’t say, officially. But I don’t see how they’d dare let a man of your ability get near any critical work. Of course, there’s still a policy decision due on your case. So I can’t say definitely until it reaches me.”

Martino paced three steps toward the end of the room, spun, and paced back.

Rogers found himself apologizing to the man. “They couldn’t take the risk. They’re probably trying some alternate approach to the problem K-Eighty-Eight was supposed to handle.”

Martino slapped his thigh.

“Probably that monstrosity of Besser’s.” He sat down abruptly, facing away from them. His hand fumbled at his shirt pocket and he pushed the end of a cigarette through his mouth grille. A motor whined, and the split soft rubber inner gasket closed around it. He lit the cigarette with jerky motions of his good arm.

“Damn it,” he muttered savagely, “Damn it, K-Eighty-Eight was the answer! They’ll go broke trying to make that abortion of Besser’s work.” He took an angry drag on the cigarette.

Suddenly he spun his head around and looked squarely at Rogers. “What in hell are you staring at? I’ve got a throat and tongue. Why shouldn’t I smoke?”

“We know that, Mr. Martino,” Finchley said gently.

Martino’s red gaze shifted. “You just think you do.” He turned back to face the wall. “Weren’t you two about to leave?”