"Y-yes," he murmured.
"You are to go directly to Sandley Airport, twelve miles due southwest from your present location. A charter plane bearing the registration TL-516 will take you to a destination where you will receive further instructions. Please note this information, as your call will not be accepted a second time. That is Sandley Airport, twelve miles due southwest."
Smith jotted down the information.
"By car, your traveling time should be approximately 14.6 minutes. The timetable for your journey has been activated by this telephone call. In exactly eighteen minutes, the plane bearing the registration number TL-516 will be airborne. If you are not present on the craft at that time, the functions of your computer will not be restored. Also, you are strongly advised not to reveal your agreement to participate in this project, as we cannot be responsible for any harm that may come to those not specifically invited. We hope we make ourselves perfectly clear, Dr. Smith."
There was a short pause, followed by a beep. "You have seventeen minutes. Have a pleasant trip." The line went dead.
He clicked the cradle buttons. There was nothing, not even a dial tone. He pressed the intercom connecting him with his secretary. It, too, was dead.
"Mrs. Mikulka, are your phones working?" he called from the doorway.
"No, sir," came the unruffled reply. "All of the lines have been dead since I arrived."
"But I made a call."
"Yes, sir. Quite peculiar. Shall I walk to a pay phone and call the telephone company?"
He checked his watch. Sixteen minutes left.
"Sir?"
"Er... whatever you think," he said absently.
Well, he thought, he didn't have much choice in the matter now. If he were killed, the president's voice could still activate the self-destruct mechanism. That was on a separate circuit. But before he died, he would find out who had broken into the Folcroft computer banks— and how.
One other thing tugged at the back of his mind. The recording on the phone— so accurate, so organized— had said, quite clearly, that if he wasn't on the plane in time, his computer would not regain function. Computer, in the singular. It may have been a simple error, but Smith doubted that whoever was behind this scheme made simple errors. What was more likely was that the organizing force was not fully aware of the Folcroft Four.
A small ray of hope sprang up in him. Memorizing the instructions he had written down, he stuffed the note into an envelope and sealed it.
"This is for a person named Remo," he said, handing it to Mrs. Mikulka on his way out.
"How do I reach him, Dr. Smith?"
"He'll reach you."
"How will I know him?"
"You'll know him." Smith said.
?Chapter Four
TL-516 was a forty-year-old DC-3 piloted by a man who appeared to have a considerable drinking problem. Smith, sitting ramrod straight in the copilot's seat with his attaché case clutched over his lap, mentioned it as civilly as possible as the pilot slogged down two inches from a fifth of Jack Daniels.
"Don't worry about nothin'," the pilot said. He exhaled a breath that smelled as if it could launch the Columbia. "Drinking's not my problem."
"No?" Smith asked archly.
"Nope. Not drinking's the problem. Once I quit, I start getting the shakes. Anything can happen then. Nosedive, fly into a mountain, you name it."
"I see," Smith said, feeling faint.
"Long as I got some fuel in the old tank, though, we're fine." He patted his stomach and took another swig.
Smith eyed the level of the bottle's contents. At the rate the pilot was consuming it, emptiness was imminent and the shakes inevitable.
"How far are we going?" he asked, trying to sound casual.
"Near Miami," the pilot said proudly.
"Oh." It was almost a sob.
"Got another," the old man said with a wink. He reached under his seat and hoisted a second bottle aloft.
Smith permitted himself to exhale.
"Want a blast?"
"Er... a what?"
"A blast," the pilot said, louder.
"No, thank you."
"Do you good. From the looks of you, something's got you wound up tighter'n a popcorn fart. Why, when you—"
"Thank you for your concern," Smith said, cutting him off. "Do you know who I'm meeting?"
"Lear jet," the pilot said.
"Excuse me?"
"A Lear jet," the pilot shouted, annoyed. "Old turkey can't hear nothing."
Smith harumphed. "I meant, do you know the person I'm meeting," Smith explained.
"Why? Don't you know who you're going to see?"
"No."
"Well, then, why should I?"
"Who authorized you to make this flight?" Smith asked testily.
"Telephone."