Gary Brandner - The Brain Eaters

“Where have you taken Lloyd Bratz?”

“We are keeping him under observation.”

“That sounds ominous.”

“It is as much in his own interest as Biotron’s,” Kitzmiller said.

“Oh, sure.” Dena’s mouth twisted in a mirthless grin. “And his wife, Helen, is she under observation, too?”

“Of course not. The company recognizes its obligation to the families of its employees. Mrs. Bratz has been relocated until such time as she can join her husband.”

“That’s a lot of bureaucratic gobbledygook, doctor. I expected better from you.”

Kitzmiller sighed heavily. “You’re right. I am not comfortable with evasions. I wish I could take you completely into my confidence, but there are compelling reasons that prevent me from doing so. I hope you will accept that.”

“I suppose I’ll have to.”

“I would like your promise that you will keep our discussion here confidential.”

“I’m not sure I can give that promise,” Dena said.

He leaned toward her across the desk. The ice-blue eyes glittered. “Dr. Falkner, there is more involved here than the lives of those two pilots. More than the welfare of Biotron. Much, much more. It is essential that what I have told you is not repeated to the wrong people.”

Dena regarded him levelly. He was a cold, secret man, but she had a deep respect for him. She said, “I won’t say anything, doctor. Not right away. And not unless something else happens.”

“I will accept that,” he said. “When the facts are known, I am sure you will agree that silence now is in the best interests of all concerned.”

“Maybe,” Dena said.

Kitzmiller leaned back in the chair and spread his hands flat on the desk, a signal that the interview was over. Dena rose and walked out without looking back.

When he was alone, Kitzmiller turned his frosty gaze on the mirror. He thumbed the switch of the intercom, and the filtered man’s voice spoke.

“She will have to be watched.”

Kitzmiller nodded and turned away. With no one to see, his face relaxed into a look of inexpressible sadness.

Corey Macklin caught himself whistling as he rode the creaky elevator up to the editorial offices on the third floor of the Herald building. He grinned. He could not remember whistling since he was a boy. It simply was not his style. That morning, however, was different. That morning was going to open a new chapter in his life.

He got out of the elevator and strode through the city room with a broad smile on his face. People who knew him turned and looked a second time. It was not like Corey to be drunk at that time of morning, but they could think of no other reason for the happy expression. He merely smiled all the brighter and waved at them.

There was a note waiting for him at his desk. See Uhlander . Well, fine. That was exactly what he planned to do. He hadn’t expected the editor to be in that early, but since he was, so much the better. Corey gathered and sorted his notes on Stransky-Williamson. He was ready with a strong pitch for a trip to Seattle to get the Andrea Keith story. That would make the third leg of the triangle. There was no doubt in his mind that Porter Uhlander would go for it. How could he refuse?

The editor was seated with his hands folded over his paunch when Corey walked in. A powdering of Tums flecked the corners of his mouth. Corey started to pull the cracked leather chair over when he saw the small, dapper man seated back against the wall. The man had black, close-together eyes and a shrewd mouth.

Uhlander said, “Corey, this is Mr. Eichorn.”

Corey straightened up. “How do you do?” It was the first time since he had worked at the Herald that the publisher had put in an appearance.

Nathan Eichorn stood up and came over to shake Corey’s hand. The smaller man’s grip was cool and moist and quickly released.

“Please sit down,” Eichorn said. Corey lowered himself into the chair, and Eichorn pulled his own closer to the editor’s desk. “I’ve been talking to Porter here about you. I don’t know if he’s mentioned it.”

“He did say something about a column,” Corey said carefully. He did not want to sound eager about accepting some two-bit promotion.

“That was in my mind a while back, but I’ve got something bigger in mind for you, Corey. Much bigger.”

Uhlander belched audibly. Nathan Eichorn shot him an irritated look. Corey waited.

“Does the name Scope mean anything to you?” Eichorn asked.

“Wasn’t that the name of a proposed weekly news magazine that was being kicked around a year ago?”

“That’s right.” The publisher bobbed his head up and down. “Only now it’s well beyond the proposal stage. I hope to get the first issue on the stands by the first of the year.”

“That’s pretty ambitious,” Corey said. He wondered where the conversation was leading.

“Yes, it is,” Eichorn agreed, “but with the right people in the right positions, I know it can be done. I have most of the staff picked out, with one major exception.” He paused dramatically. “I need a managing editor.”

Corey felt a tightening around his diaphragm. “That’s major, all right,” he said.

“I want you to take the job.”

Corey looked at Porter Uhlander for some hint of what was going on. The editor’s expression told him nothing. He turned back to face Nathan Eichorn. “This is … kind of a surprise.”

“I don’t doubt it. But I’ve been watching your work, Corey, and I like what I’ve seen. I’ve also talked to people about you, naturally including Porter here. I’ve had some very good reports. Very good.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Corey said. “It hasn’t always been that way.”

“I know all about your trouble in San Francisco,” Eichorn said. “Ancient history. I have faith in what you can do now, and that’s all that counts with me.”

“Thank you.” Corey wondered at the vehemence of the man. Was he overdoing it?

“Naturally, there are a lot of details you’ll want to hear,” Eichorn went on. “There will be time for that later. Right now I can tell you that you’ll find the salary and benefits damn generous. And if there’s anything that you want and you don’t see, just ask for it. Heh-heh.” The publisher’s laugh was unconvincing.

“It certainly sounds like an interesting opportunity.” A worm of doubt was beginning to gnaw at Corey.

“I’ll tell you how interesting it is,” Eichorn said, leaning forward. “It’s an opportunity that a lot of men in our business would kill for. I understand you have no personal ties in Milwaukee. No family or anything.”

“No family,” Corey said.

“Good, good. Because I want you to get started on this right away. If we’re going to put the book on the stands in January, we’ll have to burn a lot of midnight oil. Can you be ready to leave for Houston in the next couple of days?”

“Houston?”

“That’s where our headquarters are going to be. New York real estate has priced itself right out of sight. Publishers are leaving there as fast as their leases are up. Houston is a booming young city. Vigorous. Cosmopolitan. Ideal for starting a new book like ours. So how about it? Can I pencil you in at the top of the masthead?”

Corey took several seconds to formulate his answer. “It certainly sounds like a challenging job, Mr. Eichorn. I have to admit I’m a little stunned at the suddenness of it all.”

“That’s the way I do things, Corey. Quietly study the facts, come to a decision, and bang, make my move. I didn’t get to be where I am by shilly-shallying.”

“Well, I certainly appreciate it,” Corey said. “There’s just one thing. I’m working on what I think is a very important story right now, and I’d like to wrap it up before moving on to anything else.”