" 'Course there was. What do you think, phones talk by themselves? It was the base operator down at the airport."
Smith continued doggedly. "And who called him?"
"How the hell do I know?" He poured the equivalent of four or five doubles down his throat, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. "Some woman. Got piles of money, I guess."
"A woman?"
"Can't hear nothing, can you?" the pilot screeched.
The Lear jet was waiting at the end of the landing strip. The place seemed oddly deserted for a good-sized airport.
"Home of the wackos," the pilot said cryptically as he touched down with a bone-shattering thud.
"I'm sure you'd know," Smith said.
The passenger door of the sleek little jet was open. Inside, in the captain's seat, sat a strikingly beautiful woman with a fragrant mane of long brown-gold hair.
"Welcome, Dr. Smith," she said. Her voice was as rich as velvet.
"The woman," Smith said quietly, remembering what the drunken pilot had said. "So you're behind this."
"Not exactly," she said with a faint Mediterranean accent. "My name is Circe." She turned to face him. The long scar on her face came as a shock.
"I recommend that you get used to my disfigurement," she said. "You'll be seeing quite a bit of me."
"I'd like to know where you're taking me."
"To Greater Abaco Island, in the Bahamas chain," she said. "A small white population, made up mostly of transient boaters. Sun, surf, and solitude."
"For how long?" Smith asked acidly.
The girl laughed. "Don't be afraid. You won't be held prisoner for long. A week, perhaps."
"May I ask the purpose of my visit?"
"I was hoping you would. Your presence is required at a conference to be attended by a hundred of the best minds in the world. You have been selected to represent the computer arts."
"There must be some mistake," Smith began.
"No mistake." She took a deep, bored breath. "In 1944, while on active duty in the OSS, you helped to design plans for a military data-storage machine that eventually became what is known as UNIVAC, the first computer. Since then, despite your obsessive quest for anonymity, the sporadic papers you wrote on every facet of computer operations from the earliest digital models to the first non-binomial language have made history. The fact that you received your doctorate after you were already established as a leading authority in your field came as no surprise to anyone aware of your abilities."
"How did you find that out?" Smith asked irritably.
"My employer has many resources at his disposal. Not the least of them is a tremendous supply of funds for research into our delegates' pasts."
Smith shifted uneasily in his seat. "That was a long time ago," he said, adding, "it was never my field in the first place."
She smiled. "Yes, of course. Your name has not come up in the literature of computer technology for more than a decade. You have never been employed as a computer analyst. You work as the director of Folcroft Sanitarium. Sure. And Bobby Fischer is a beach bum."
"What?"
She regarded him levelly. "The way one lives does not alter one's ability, Dr. Smith. Your ability with computers is what matters, not your job."
"You've got the wrong man," Smith said gruffly.
"We would if we hadn't traced you through a computer."
Smith stiffened.
"There's no need for paranoia. We assumed that if you were still active in the field, a computer would be near you. It was the best way to reach you. Your information banks weren't tapped, if that's what you're afraid of."
He felt as if he were going to lose control of his bladder. The information banks weren't pirated. He said only, "I don't believe you."
Circe shrugged. "That makes no difference to me. I just thought it would set your mind at rest to know that whatever arcane project you were working on wasn't snooped on. Not that we didn't try. Your circuitry is too complex. That was when we knew you were our man."
"But the messages..."
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Think about it, Dr. Smith. The telephone."
His mouth opened as the realization hit him. "The phones were dead," he said in wonder.
"A general short-circuit. The emergency generator kept the lights and whatever hospital machinery you have operating automatically. The phones and the computer are linked, of course. They usually are."
"But the message."
"A special hookup into your phone system. Temporary. It's gone by now."
"And the recorded instructions to meet you?"
"A one-time routing. That line no longer exists."
He looked at her for a long moment. "You people are certainly going to a lot of trouble," he said.
"There's a lot at stake."
She didn't speak again until they touched down on a small runway on what appeared to be a deserted island. Tropical plants and exotic flowering trees grew along the strip in primitive abandon. But somehow the atmosphere of the place was strangely oppressive. The air was heavy with the moisture of salt spray. Overhead, a cloud blotted out the small, high sun, making Smith feel as if he were in an enclosed box.
Circe turned off the engine and motioned for him to leave the craft. As he rose, she folded her hand over the handle of his attaché case.
"You can't have that," Smith said.
"No?" She drew a pistol from under the seat and held it steady inches from his face. The gun was only a .22 caliber, but at point-blank range would have turned his face into a rosette garnish of flesh.
With a hiss of disgust, he left the case with her. "One more thing," he said. "When I asked you if you were behind this, you said, 'Not exactly.' Just who is your employer? Exactly."
She reached across him and flung open his door. The damp air rushed in and surrounded him like sticky hands.