"You know, I hate to spoil all the fun you're having." Vance tried to look at Moreau, but he could barely see through the swelling of his puffy eyelids. "But I've got some unsettling news. You and the rest of Ramirez's hoods are about to be in a deep situation here. The minute you try to send that bomb up, you can tip your hat and kiss your ass good-bye. Better enjoy this while you can."
"What do you mean?"
“That nuke you've got primed. It pains me to tell you, pardon the joke, but your gang isn't exactly the crew of rocket scientists you think you are. The second the Cyclops laser hits the first vehicle, there's going to be a lift-off, all right. Only it's likely to be this island that's headed for orbit. And you with it. Why in hell do you think I was trying to stop it?" Was it true? he wondered. Think. Try to make it sound convincing.
"What are you talking about?" Moreau's blue eyes bristled.
"Just thought you ought to know the bottom line. If you're planning to liberate the oppressed masses or whatever, this is a hell of a way to start. By nuking yourself. That should really impress everybody with your dedication."
"You are going to die anyway, so what do you care?"
"Got a point there. Guess I'm just wasting my time. But there are a few people here on the island that I like-you, incidentally, are not among them-and I would kind of hate to see them get blown away because of your fucking incompetence." He paused, trying to breathe. "As it happens, I had a chat with the project director. She told me how that system works. The nuts and bolts are a little complicated, but it boils down to what happens inside the rocket when the Cyclops laser starts up. Surely you know the energy in the Cyclops creates plasma in the vehicle-that's loose atoms-which becomes the propellant." Vance looked at him. "You do know that, don't you?"
Moreau nodded, almost but not quite understanding what he was talking about.
"Good, because the interesting part comes next. You don't create this atomic soup called plasma without generating a lot of electromagnetic noise-in other words, radio garbage." You know, he thought to himself, it's getting to sound better and better all the time.
"These technical things do not concern me," Moreau declared with a shrug.
"They may not concern you, pal, but they might concern the bomb. What if one of the radio signals produced just happens to be the one that triggers its detonator? And believe me, with the smorgasbord of radio noise that plasma produces, the chances are easily fifty-fifty. I hope you feel lucky, asshole."
"I don't believe you." He sat down, in a spare chair, beginning to appear a little uncertain.
"You hotshots are a little over your head here. Maybe you ought to pass that information to the chief." Anything to get him out of here, Vance was thinking. Anything to give me a little time to recover. "I suggest you think about it." He struggled to rise, but then realized he was tied into the chair. 'Congratulations. I think you just about beat me to a pulp."
"It was my pleasure." Moreau looked him over, his expression now definitely troubled. "Now I should beat you again for lying."
"If it's all the same, I think you might be smart to keep me conscious for a while longer. Maybe I can tell you how to solve your problem."
"If you are so wise, then tell me now." Moreau said.
"With all due respect, I don't talk to messenger boys." He tried to shift his weight, but his body hurt no matter what he did. "You wouldn't understand anyway. It's too technical. Why don't you let me have a chat with that genius you've got running the computer? He's the only one around here who could possibly understand what I'm talking about."
And he's the one, Vance told himself, who now holds the key to everything. Remove him and their whole house of cards crumbles.
"You mean the Israeli." He fairly spat out the words. “He's-"
"So, this operation is multinational."
"Peretz is handling the computer."
"Peretz. Is that his name?" Now we're getting somewhere, Vance thought. If I can get in the same room with the bastard, maybe I can rearrange his brain cells.
"He is supposed to be a computer specialist." Moreau's voice betrayed his contempt. "Maybe he is. But he thinks he knows everything. Whenever anybody tries to tell him anything, he just laughs and makes bad jokes. He won't listen to you."
"Well, why don't we give it a shot anyway?"
Moreau examined him closely, still skeptical but beginning to have second thoughts. "Why would you want to do this, anyway? Help us?"
"Like I told you, I figure you're going to end up detonating that bomb somewhere. Frankly I'd just as soon it wasn't fifty feet from where I'm standing, make that sitting. I do have a small sense of self-preservation left. So why don't you do everybody a favor and let me talk to this Peretz? He has to change the radio frequency that detonates the bomb to digital mode. If that thing is controlled with plain old UHF the Cyclops may just set it off before it ever leaves the pad.”
Vance knew he was talking over this thug's head. He was talking over his own head. But who knew? His fabrication might even be true. The story, though, probably could use some work. "Look," he said finally, "why don't you raise him on that walkie-talkie and let me talk to him?"
Moreau frowned at the idea. "We've gone to radio silence except for emergencies."
"I'd say this qualifies."
“That remains to be seen." He paused. "I'll go and tell him what you said. Then he can decide for himself what he wants to do."
"I don't want to belabor the obvious here, but time is running a little short."
"I'll be back. If he says you are lying, I may just kill you myself."
Whereupon he opened the door and walked straight into a befuddled Isaac Mannheim.