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.”