“You say they’ll be stuck there for a week?”

“More or less. No way to say for sure. If the local garage gets the replacement parts in earlier, they could be fixed up that much sooner. Doesn’t look like it, though.

“The local fuzz think it was just a bungled rip-off job by a couple of city boys intent on swiping the van’s battery and stuff.” Her expression changed. “We’ve got another problem now, though.”

“Great.” He pushed back his hair. “What?”

“I was upstairs for a while and took the time to check in with my office. You know Hank Moorhead?”

Huddy nodded. Moorhead was a second vice-president in charge of general West Coast Administration. About five, six years older than Huddy, straightforward, unimaginative but persistent. Like the other younger executives at CCM West he’d reacted morosely to all the acclaim Huddy and Somerset had received as a result of the successful Riverside dump cleanup.

“What’s that turgid bastard been up to?”

“The two of us have been moving around a lot lately. You especially, Benjamin. It’s been relatively simple for me to cover for my movements. Checking up on Houston’s cogitative facilities, remember? You suggested that one yourself.

“You, however, have been bouncing around too much. First back and forth to Riverside, then Phoenix, then some small town in southern Arizona. . . . What the hell’s the name?”

“Benson,” Huddy reminded her.

“Yeah, Benson. Now here. Anyway, Moorhead’s sticking his nose down to where he’s beginning to smell stuff. I can’t fend him off because my department doesn’t interact with his. He has his own computer section.”

“Now who’s worrying too much?’.’ said Huddy coolly. “Don’t worry about Moorhead. I can handle him.”

“Of course you can, Benjy.” What’s he so uptight about, she wondered? “There is something bothering you. Tell mama, Benjamin. I know you too well.”

“Too well for what?”

“Don’t fence with me, lover, and don’t try charging the subject. Your mouth says one thing, your manner another.” She had a sudden, distressing thought. “Don’t tell me that you’ve suddenly decided all this trouble’s been for nothing? That the old man’s a goof trickster after all and that there’s nothing to any of your suspicions?” All of her initial skepticism came flooding back.

“Oh, there’s something to my suspicions, alright,” Huddy assured her. “But you’re right about the old man not being exactly what I thought. At least, I think he isn’t.”

“You’re confusing me, Benjy. I don’t want more confusion.” As she’d done on several previous occasions she wondered briefly if perhaps she hadn’t thrown in her lot at CCM with the wrong man, his apparent intelligence and good looks notwithstanding.

“I’m just not sure of anything anymore,” he muttered. “Especially if it involves an old man named Pickett.” He stood, turned from the couch.

“You’re not letting him make you paranoid, Benjy? I’m the only paranoid allowed around here.” He didn’t smile at the sally. “You don’t look so good either, lover.”

“I don’t feel so good.” He gestured toward a door. “Come on inside.”

They had to utilize their company identification cards twice, inserting them into slots set next to thick doors, in order to gain admittance to the lab itself. Most of CCM’s facilities were constructed above such subterranean lab complexes. Burying the labs enabled the company to insure secrecy as well as helping to contain any dangerous explosions or chemical leaks.

There was one particularly elaborate research complex interred just outside the city limits of Madison, Wisconsin. That facility was built like an iceberg, nine-tenths underground. CCM did work there for the Pentagon on chemical and bacteriological weapons systems. The fact wasn’t advertised because if the local dairy farmers had been aware of what was developing in their midst they would have raised bloody hell all the way back to Washington.

“Hello, Mr. Huddy.” A soft-faced man in a white lab smock strolled over to greet them. He glanced questioningly at Somerset. Huddy ignored the unspoken request for an introduction.

“Where are the materials, Monsey?”

“Over here, sir. We’ve just set them aside for a little while. We’re working on graphic analysis right now.” He continued to stare at Somerset until Huddy could no longer reasonably ignore him.

“Monsey, this is Ruth Somerset from the Los Angeles office. Ruth, Kendall Monsey.”

“Hello, miss.”

“Morning.” She took an instant dislike to the researcher. Many men, sometimes consciously, sometimes otherwise, undressed her with their eyes. She didn’t mind being admired, but there were other things people could do with eyes and expressions. Bejamin looked at her admiringly. This Monsey had little fingers attached to his eyes, and when he stared at her they went crawling greasily all over her.

He turned to lead them down a spotlessly clean, wide aisle between two long lab benches. Others labored at benches farther away. All were clad in white.

“Can I answer any questions for you, sir?” he asked as they halted opposite the middle of the workbench.

“Not right now, Monsey. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome, sir. If you have any questions, miss, Mr. Huddy can show you to my office.”

“I’ll call you,” she assured him. She waited until he was out of earshot. “Filthy little man, Benjamin.”

“I don’t like him either, but he knows his business. Have a gander.”

She turned her attention to the workbench. Carefully laid out on the formica were the components of a .38 police special. Resting in nearby petrie dishes were the fragments of rag taken from Jake Pickett’s Benson motel room. She recognized them instantly.

“You told me what happened at the motel. Why show me the results? Am I supposed to draw conclusions from looking at this stuff? It means nothing to me.”

“It didn’t mean anything to anyone, until Monsey and his people took a close look at the stuff. A real close look. I never thought to have the Phoenix pickup truck inspected closely. First off, it wasn’t a company vehicle. Besides, what was there to check? The wheels came off. That’s all. Only it’s not all.

“This time I thought maybe it might be a good idea to have someone go over the objects that Pickett”—he hesitated—“affected. I thought we might be able to learn something. Well, we have learned something. Maybe. Look closer, Ruth.”

She leaned over the table, squinted at the display. The pistol appeared to have been disassembled by an expert. The pieces of cloth might have come from any disintegrating section of fabric.

“I can’t say about the gun,” she finally decided, standing straight. “As for the threads, maybe the rag your people used was old and rotten. It could’ve come apart in a fight.”

“It came apart, alright, but not in a fight,” he told her. “And not in the way I thought it would have, either.” His voice was soft, his tone indifferent. He turned to stare down at the workbench and his mind seemed a million miles away.

She couldn’t fathom his attitude. Why was he so upset? If Pickett had done these things in the fashion described by eyewitnesses, then events seemed to be confirming all Huddy’s initial guesses concerning the old man’s peculiar abilities. He ought to be delighted.

That was when she decided to dump him the moment the opportunity presented itself. As soon as she could get out clean she’d start putting some distance between them. If he was going to sink into deep depression every time something happened he hadn’t planned for she sure as hell didn’t want him around when the time came to make quick, career-crucial decisions.

Her mind worked rapidly. If she watched herself and moved carefully enough to keep him from becoming suspicious, she might be able to claim all the credit for anything beneficial arising out of this Pickett business. If the operation was a complete bust she ought to be able to divorce herself completely from the consequences.

Thus comforted in her own mind she considered her future. Hank Moorhead wasn’t quite the dumb flake Huddy insisted he was. Maybe he wasn’t especially bright, but he was solid. If he thought he stood a chance of learning something that would take Huddy or Somerset down a notch or two, he’d dig for it like a wildcatter in shale. Huddy, of course, was the fatter target of the two. Yes, Moorhead could be enemy or ally.

She was trying to determine how best to approach him when she returned to L.A. when Huddy said, “Jake Pickett’s not telekinetic, Ruth, like I thought…like I hoped he might be. He’s… something else.”

“Hmmm? Sorry, Benjy, I wasn’t listening. You were drifting, and I was waiting on you.”

“Come here.” He took her arm, escorted her down to the far end of the workbench. Locked into the lowest shelf was a rack of large test tubes. Each glass cylinder held a differently colored powder. The quantities were very small.

“What do you think those are?” he asked her.

“Really, Benjy,” she chided him, “you know I’m not the twenty questions type.”