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"You've lost all your leads to 'Vorga,' haven't you?"
"And?"
"I've found another."
"Where?"
"Never mind where. Will you agree to let me go if I turn it over
to you?"
"I can take it from you."
"Go ahead. Take it." Her eyes flashed. "If you know what it is,
you won't have any trouble."
"I can make you give it to me."
"Can you? After the bombing tonight? Try."
He was taken aback by her defiance. "How do I know you're not
bluffing?"
"I'll give you one hint. Remember the man in Australia?"
"Forrest?"
"Yes. He tried to tell you the names of the crew. Do you
remember the only name he got out?"
"Kemp."
"He died before he could finish it. The name is Kempsey."
"That's your lead?"
"Yes. Kempsey. Name and address. In return for your promise
to let me go."
"It's a sale," he said. "You can go. Give it to me."
She went at once to the travel dress she had worn in Shanghai.
From the pocket she took out a sheet of partially burned paper. "I
saw this on Sergei Orel's desk when I was trying to put the fire out the
fire the Burning Man started . . ."
She handed him the sheet of paper. It was a fragment Of a
begging letter.
It read: . . . do anything to get out of these bacteria fields. Why
should a man just because he can't jaunte get treated like a dog?
Please help me, Serg. Help an old shipmate off a ship we don't
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mention. You can spare ~r 100. Remember all the favors I done you?
Send ~r 200 or even ~r 50. Don't let me down.
Rodg Kempsey
Barrack 3
Bacteria, Inc.
Mare Nubium
Moon
"By God!" Foyle exclaimed. "This is the lead. We can't fail this
time. We'll know what to do. He'll spill everything. . . everything." He
grinned at Robin. "We leave for the moon tomorrow night. Book
passage. No, there'll be trouble on account of the attack. Buy a ship.
They'll be unloading them cheap anyway."
"We?" Robin said. "You mean you."
"I mean we," Foyle answered. "We're going to the moon. Both of
us."
"I'm leaving."
"You're not leaving. You're staying with me."
"But you swore you'd-"
"Grow up, girl. I had to swear to anything to get this. I need you
more than ever now. Not for 'Vorga.' I'll handle 'Vorga' myself. For
something much more important."
He looked at her incredulous face and smiled ruefully. "It's too
bad, girl. If you'd given me this letter two hours ago I'd have kept my
word. But it's too late now. I need a Romance Secretary. I'm in love
with Olivia Presteign."
She leaped to her feet in a blaze of fury. "You're in love with
her? Olivia Presteign? In love with that white corpse!" The bitter fury
of her telesending was a startling revelation to him. "Ah, now you
have lost me. Forever. Now I'll destroy you!"
She disappeared.
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CHAPTER TWELVE
CAPTAIN PETER Y'ANG-YEOVIL was handling reports at Central
Intelligence Hq. in London at the rate of six per minute. Information
was phoned in, wired in, cabled in, jaunted in. The bombardment
picture unfolded rapidly.
ATTACK SATURATED N & S AMERICA FROM 6o° TO 1200
WEST LONGITUDE.. . LABRADOR TO ALASKA IN N. . . RIO
TO ECUADOR IN S ... ESTIMATED TEN PER CENT (10%)
MISSILES PENETRATED INTERCEPTION SCREEN ...
ESTIMATED POPULATION LOSS: TEN TO TWELVE MILLION
"If it wasn't for jaunting," Y'ang-Yeovil said, "the losses would
have been five times that. All the same, it's close to a knockout. One
more punch like that and Terra's finished."
He addressed this to the assistants jaunting in and out of his
office, appearing and disappearing, dropping reports on his desk and
chalking results and equations on the glass blackboard that covered
one entire wall. Informality was the rule, and Y'ang-Yeovil was
surprised and suspicious when an assistant knocked on his door and
entered with elaborate formality.
"What larceny now?" he asked.
"Lady to see you, Yeo."
"Is this the time for comedy?" Y'ang-Yeovil said in exasperated
tones. He pointed to the Whitehead equations spelling disaster on the
transparent blackboard. "Read that and weep on the way out."
"Very special lady, Yeo. Your Venus from the Spanish Stairs."
"Who? What Venus?"
"Your Congo Venus."
"Oh? That one?" Y'ang-Yeovil hesitated. "Send her in."
"You'll interview her in private, of course."
"Of course nothing. There's a war on. Keep those reports
coming, but tip everybody to switch to Secret Speech if they have to
talk to me."
Robin Wednesbury entered the office, still wearing the torn
white evening gown. She had jaunted immediately from New York to
London without bothering to change. Her face was strained, but
lovely. Y'ang-Yeovil gave her a split-second inspection and realized
that his first appreciation of her had not been mistaken. Robin
returned the inspection and her eyes dilated. "But you're the cook
from the Spanish Stairs! Angelo Poggi!"
As an Intelligence Officer, Y'ang-Yeovil was prepared to deal
with this crisis. "Not a cook, madam. I haven't had time to change
back to my usual fascinating self. Please sit here, Miss . . . ?"
"Wednesbury. Robin Wednesbury."
"Charmed. I'm Captain Y'ang-Yeovil. How nice of you to come
and see me, Miss Wednesbury. You've saved me a long, hard search."
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"B-But I don't understand. What were you doing on the Spanish
Stairs? Why were you hunting-?"
Y'ang-Yeovil saw that her lips weren't moving. "Ah? You're a
telepath, Miss Wednesbury? How is that possible? I thought I knew
every telepath in the system."
"I'm not a full telepath. I'm a telesend. I can only send.. . . not
receive."
"Which, of course, makes you worthless to the world. I see."
Y'ang-Yeovil cocked a sympathetic eye at her. "What a dirty trick,
Miss Wednesbury to be saddled with all the disadvantages of
telepathy, and be deprived of all the advantages. I do sympathize.
Believe me."
"Bless him! He's the first ever to realize that without being
told."
"Careful, Miss Wednesbury, I'm receiving you. Now, about the
Spanish Stairs?"
He paused, listening intently to her agitated telesending: "Why
was he hunting?
Me? Alien Be- Oh God! Will they hurt me? Cut and- Information. I-
"
"My dear girl," Y'ang-Yeovil said gently. He took her hands and
held them sympathetically. "Listen to me a moment. You're alarmed
over nothing. Apparently you're an Alien Belligerent. Yes?"
She nodded.
"That's unfortunate, but we won't worry about it now. About
Intelligence cutting and slicing information out of people . - . that's all
propaganda."
"Propaganda?"
"We're not maladroits, Miss Wednesbury. We know how to
extract information without being medieval. But we spread the legend
to soften people up in advance, so to speak."
"Is that true? He's lying. It's a trick."
"It's true, Miss Wednesbury. I do finesse, but there's no need
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