Henry Kuttner: Gallegher Plus

That was that.

With a glance at the gadget, Gallegher arose, wondering what Blazer had thought it was. A death-ray projector, perhaps. Gallegher grinned faintly. He found the door key in his unconscious victim’s pocket, let himself out of the attic, and warily descended a stairway. So far, so good.

A reputation for scientific achievements has its advantages. It had, at least, served the purpose of distracting Blazer’s attention from the obvious.

What now?

The house was a three-story, empty structure near the Battery. Gallegher escaped through a window. He did not pause till he was in an airtaxi, speeding uptown. There, breathing deeply, he flipped the wind filter and let the cool night breeze cool his perspiring cheeks. A full moon rode high in the black autumn sky. Below, through the earth-view transparent panel, he could see the brilliant ribbons of streets, with slashing bright diagonals marking the upper level speedways.

Smith. Fatty Smith. Connected with DU, somehow—

With an access of caution, he paid off the pilot and stepped out on a rooftop landing in the White Way district. There were televisor booths here, and Gallegher called his lab. The robot answered.

“Narcissus—”

“Joe,” the robot corrected. “And you’ve been drinking some more. Why don’t you sober up?

“Shut up and listen. What’s been happening?”

“Not much.”

“Those thugs. Did they come back?”

“No,” Narcissus said, “but some officers came to arrest you. Remember that summons they served you with today? You should have appeared in court at 5 P.M.”

Summons. Oh, yeah. Dell Hopper—one thousand credits.

“Are they there now?”

“No. I said you’d taken a powder.”

’Why?” asked Gallegher.

“So they wouldn’t hang around. Now you can come home whenever you like—if you take reasonable precautions.”

“Such as what?”

“That’s your problem,” Narcissus said. “Get a false beard. I’ve done my share.”

Gallegher said, “All right, make a lot of black coffee. Any other calls?”

“One from Washington. A commander in the space police unit. He didn’t give his name.”

“Space police! Are they after me, too? What did he want?”

“You,” the robot said. “Good-by. You interrupted a lovely song I was singing to myself.”

“Make that coffee,” Gallegher ordered as the image faded. He stepped out of the booth and stood for a moment, considering, while he stared blankly at the towers of Manhattan rising around him, with their irregular patterns of lighted windows, square, oval, circular, crescent, or star-shaped.

A call from Washington.

Hopper cracking down.

Max Cuff and his thugs.

Fatty Smith.

Smith was the best bet. He tried the visor again, calling DU.

“Sorry, we have closed for the day.”

“This is important,” Gallegher insisted. “I need some information. I’ve got to get in touch with a man—”

“I’m sorry.”

“S-m-i-t-h,” Gallegher spelled. “Just look him up in the file or something, won’t you? Or do you want me to cut my throat while you watch?” He fumbled in his pocket.

“If you will call tomorrow—”

“That’ll be too late. Can’t you just look it up for me? Please. Double please.”

“Sorry.”

“I’m a stockholder in DU,” Gallegher snarled. “I warn you, my girl!”

“A… oh. Well, it’s, irregular, but—S-m-i-t-h? One moment. The first name: is what?”

“I don’t know. Give me all the Smiths.”

The girl disappeared and came back with a file box labeled SMI. “Oh, dear,” she said, riffling through the cards. “There must be several hundred Smiths.”

Gallegher groaned. “I want a fat one,” he said wildly. “There’s no way of checking on that, I suppose.”

The secretary’s lips tightened. “Oh, a rib. I see. Good night!” She broke the connection.

Gallegher sat staring at the screen. Several hundred Smiths. Not so good. In fact, definitely bad.

Wait a minute. He had bought DU stock when it was on the skids. Why? He must have expected a rising market. But the stock had continued to fall, according to Arnie.

There might be a lead there.

He reached Arnie at the broker’s home and was insistent. “Break the date. This won’t take you long. Just find out for me why DU’s on the skids. Call me back at my lab. Or I’ll break your neck. And make it fast! Get that dope, understand?”

Arnie said he would. Gallegher drank black coffee at a counter stand, went home warily by taxi, and let himself into his house. He double-locked the door behind him. Narcissus was dancing before the big mirror in the lab.

“Any calls?” Gallegher said.

“No. Nothing’s happened. Look at this graceful pas.”

“Later. If anybody tries to get in, call me. I’ll hide till you can get rid of ’em.” Gallegher squeezed his eyes shut. “Is the coffee ready?”

“Black and strong. In the kitchen.”

The scientist went into the bathroom instead, stripped, cold-showered, and took a brief irradiation. Feeling less woozy, he returned to the lab with a gigantic cup full of steaming coffee. He perched on Bubbles and gulped the liquid.

“You look like Rodin’s Thinker,” Narcissus remarked.

“I’ll get you a robe. Your ungainly body offends my aesthetic feelings.”

Gallegher didn’t hear. He donned the robe, since his sweating skin felt unpleasantly cool, but continued to drink the coffee and stare into space.

“Narcissus. More of this.”

Equation: a (or) b (or) c equals x. He had been trying to find the value of a, b, or c. Maybe that was the wrong way. He hadn’t located J. W. at all. Smith remained a phantom. And Dell Hopper (one thousand credits) had been of no assistance.

It might be better to find the value of x. That blasted machine must have some purpose. Granted, it ate dirt. But matter cannot be destroyed; it can be changed into other forms.

Dirt went into the machine; nothing came out.

Nothing visible.

Free energy?

That was invisible, but could be detected with instruments.

Voltmeter, ammeter—gold leaf—

Gallegher turned the machine on again briefly. Its singing was dangerously loud, but no one rang the door buzzer, and after a minute or two Gallegher snapped the switch back to OFF. He had learned nothing.

Arnie called. The broker had secured the information Gallegher wanted.

“ Twasn’t easy. I had to pull some wires. But I found out why DU stock’s been dropping.”

“Thank Heaven for that! Spill it.”

“DU’s a sort of exchange, you know. They farm out jobs. This one—it’s a big office building to be constructed in downtown Manhattan. Only the contractor hasn’t been able to start yet. There’s a lot of dough tied up in the deal, and there’s a whispering campaign that’s hurt the DU stock.”

“Keep talking.”

Arnie went on. “I got all the info I could, in case. There were two firms bidding on the job.”

“Who?”

“Ajax, and somebody named—”

“Not Smith?”

“That’s it,” Arnie said. “Thaddeus Smith. S-m-e-i-t-h, he spells it.”

There was a long pause. “S-m-e-i-t-h,” Gallegher repeated at last. “So that’s why the girl at DU couldn’t… eh? Oh, nothing. I ought to have guessed it.” Sure. When he’d asked Cuff whether Fatty spelled his name with an e or an i, the alderman had said both. Smeith. Ha!

“Smeith got the contract,” Arnie continued. “He underbid Ajax. However, Ajax has political pull. They got some alderman to clamp down and apply an old statute that put the kibosh on Smeith. He can’t do a thing.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” Arnie said, “the law won’t permit him to block Manhattan traffic. It’s a question of air rights. Smeith’s client—or DU’s client, rather—bought the property lately, but air rights over it had been leased for a ninety-nine-year period to Transworld Strato. The strato-liners have their hangar just beyond that property, and you know they’re not gyros. They need a straightaway course for a bit before they can angle up. Well, their right of way runs right over the property. Their lease is good. For ninety-nine years they’ve got the right to use the air over that land, above and over fifty feet above ground level.”