The explosive was slung in the bag over his shoulder, and he was off before I could say another word. Warn him to be careful? Wish him luck?

  He was a good and experienced climber. I would have stopped for breath by this time. He just went at it hand over hand at a steady pace. Reached the junction of the four legs. That should be it. But no, he went on until he appeared to be as high as the cables pendant from their immense insulators. Then he stopped. A dark smudge against the bright metal of the tower.

  And seemed to remain there for an awfully long time.

  I don’t know much clock time passed before he started back down. Subjective time seemed to last and last. And then I could see that he was moving back down, surely and steadily. He jumped the last few meters, smiling and wiping the grit from his hands.

  “A piece of cake. Timed to blow in two hours.”

  “We’ll have a front seat for the show.”

  “We will indeed.”

  He drove the rental runabout back to the heliport. Which had a neat little robobar that did a fine line in hooch. I washed away some of the fatigue with internal lubrication. Bolivar had a mineral water and looked at his watch. “After you finish knocking that one back, Dad, we are up and away.”

  The sun was behind us we flew over the dark beaches. Everything on the ground had been washed clear by the night’s rain. Our copter passed low over the thick cables, turned in a lazy circle.

  “Ferry is still tied up,” I said. “No one below-no traffic on the road either.”

  “Just about time-” Bolivar said when the ball of flame flared out. Changed to dark billows of smoke.

  For long moments nothing happened. The copter bumped a bit when the sound of the explosion reached us.

  “Now,” Bolivar said.

  And it was going. The top of the tower was bending, falling almost gracefully. Then the giant insulators began to turn and twist, the immense cables stirring and writhing. Falling.

  I could see lightning spear out as the falling cables broke, twisting as though in pain. Twisted and fell, faster and faster, followed by the ruined tower. Splashing down into the sea in great furrows of waves that stretched across the width of the channel.

  “That will give those criminals back on the island something to think about,” Bolivar said with great satisfaction. “Normally I wouldn’t enjoy doing something like this. But anyone who drafts holidaymakers into clearing up atomic debris deserves no less.”

  I am pleased to say that I was in complete agreement.

  CHAPTER 21

  Before we parted at the heliport we called James one last time. Still no news, still no luck in finding Kaia’s elusive living quarters. It had been easier to crack into the government records than it was now to get past the privacy barriers of that exclusive city. When Bolivar was gone I picked up my bag and trudged wearily back into Fetorrscoria. I was too tired to go very far. When I came to a liquor store, with a bench out in front of it for the alcoholics, I knew I had reached journey’s end. Popping a cold beer I settled back in the sun and called Chaise.

  “Pretty good job if I say so myself.”

  “Where are you?”

  I told him and hung up. By the time I had finished the beer his car rolled up. The door opened and I climbed in. I threw the fake ID he had supplied me with onto the back seat. Took off my face and heard one last plaintive “chicken soup?” as I threw it back there as well.

  “Plenty of people saw me in Swartzlegen. And I had to use the face and ID to rent a copter. Since the maglev train pretty obviously wasn’t running. Did you like the job I did?”

  “I would be more pleased if you hadn’t seen fit to cut off all communication.”

  “If you mean all the bugs you planted on me-of course I got rid of them. I do value my privacy.”

  “You will be going to the depository tonight.”

  “No thanks? No day off? No pat on the back?”

  “Don’t be tiresome, diGriz. This will be your last assignment, as I promised. I should think that you would be very pleased that our relationship will soon be over.”

  I would be pleased when it really was over. I did not trust him in the slightest. Once back at the warehouse he got right down to business.

  “Igor. Bring the large box from the car and then go away.”

  Igor scuffled back with it, dropped it onto the table and went out. Chaise took a photograph from the box and passed it over to me.

  “This man is known as Iba Ibada, nicknamed Iba-illfavored for obvious reasons.”

  Too true! A man of average, height and schlumpy build. He wouldn’t have looked that bad had it not been for the jagged scar that ran down from his forehead, across his nose-leaving a deep dent-and down his cheek. It had been coarsely stitched up, so roughly that the scars of the sutures still showed.

  “Industrial accident,” Chaise said. “Machine caught him. He was sewn up by the first-aid assistant, who obviously had little experience. Then Iba was fired from the job for taking the rest of the day off from work. He was very grateful to me when I found him employment on the cleaning squad at the depository. In addition to his salary I pay him very well, to enable him to indulge in his repulsive vices. He is appreciative and does me favors. You will take his place tonight.”

  “Won’t anyone notice?”

  “No. I have planned this down to the last detail.”

  And so he had. The artificial scar that he brought out was identical to the original. Waterproof as well, and could only be removed by a special solvent. Shaped wedges went inside my cheeks and puffed them out to match Iba’s photograph. His work clothes were baggy and ugly enough to cover any differences in build. The heavy boots suitably scuffed.

  “How about ID?” I asked, scowling in disgust at my image in the mirror. Chaise passed over a small case. “A contact lens, right eye. Do not lose it. It is expensive and irreplaceable. It has his retinal patterns. And four sets of plastic gloves with his palm pattern on them. That should be enough, since you will only be in the repository twice. Once to see for yourself the layout and the alarms, particularly those on the bearer-bond vault, in order to plot out the theft. Then the theft on the next night. I have a specialized security-trapper kit that is also expensive and irreplaceable. Do you know how to operate it?”

  I took it, opened it-and sneered. “I was making better kits than this before I learned to shave. And what makes you think that I will be able to do to the job on the second night?”

  “You have to. There will not be a second chance. A ticket has been bought for Iba and he has been paid a large bonus. He will be going offplanet today. And don’t forget-remember the video you looked at-that you are what might be called a hostage to fortune.”

  And I was, surely enough.

  “Look at this,” Chaise said, breaking into my thoughts, passing over another memory card. I plugged it into the computer. “This is Iba on his nightly round. The route he takes, the cleaning he does. You will note that he is not a very fast worker. So you can do his job-and still have time to complete yours.”

  “How do I get to work?”

  “Igor will drive you there and will leave you close by. He will pick you up at the same spot when your shift is over. Do you have any questions before I go?”

  “None that I can think of now.”

  “There will be no opportunity later. I will not see you again until after you have returned here.”

  If there is anything more boring than mopping floors and emptying out shredding machines-it is watching someone else doing it. Including an extraordinary amount of standing about, nose and bum scratching, since the workbots did most of the cleaning. I had some fun when I speeded the film up, but even that grew tiresome. I memorized everything I needed then, since I would not be leaving until close to midnight, I lay on my cot and dozed off in front of the television.

  “Time go,” was my chauffeur’s shouted suggestion.

  We went. Trundling through the dark and empty streets. The contact lens in my eye itched and I had to strongly resist the temptation to scratch it. My palm print gloves were pulled on and the trapper kit was in my pocket. Igor stopped the truck finally and pointed ahead. “Around corner.”

  To work. A few other night workers, also in uniform, were climbing the steps to the depository. I ignored them just as lba had done in my training film.

  “How’s your girlfriend?” one of them shouted, a question that promoted great glee among the other mental giants. I answered, as did Iba in the film.

  “Bowb off.”

  These were the only words I ever heard him speak. Quite often. A bored guard held open an outer door: I walked slower in order to make sure that I would be last one in. If my fake identification did not work I wanted to get out of this place just as quickly as I could. As I walked towards the glowing eye of the retinal pattern detector I blinked inadvertently, my eye irritated by the contact lens. Which slid out of position.

  I cursed, walked even slower, trying to push it back into position, watched the last man before me walk away from the detector.

  “Move it, big-butt,” the guard helpfully suggested. “I ain’t got all night.”

  Thus encouraged I pressed the contact lens hard, hoping it was in the right place, bent and looked into the opening. There was a brief flash of light.

  I stood up, holding my breath, waiting for the alarm bells.

  The entry light flashed green. I walked slowly towards the locked door. Pressed my palm on the plate next to it.

  The door clicked open and I walked in.

  The other night workers fanned out and disappeared in the dark and silent building. I pushed open the door to the service steps and went down two flights. The lights came on when I entered the battery room, illuminating the peaceful ranks of silent robots.

  “Bowb off,” I said, as my double always did. Hanging by the door was my lightning prod, fully charged. I unplugged it and jabbed the nearest robot. “Bowb off.”

  A great spark snapped into the thing’s receiver plate, closing a relay and bringing it to robotic life. Its charging cable disconnected and slid back into its container. The robot turned and exited the room as I danced about my charges, goosing them electrically, until they were all under way.

  Through office after office. The rattle and thud of shredders being emptied, clatter of ashtrays. Behind us was the swish of mops cleaning the floor as we went. Occasionally one of the brainless robots would freeze in a feedback cycle, picking up and emptying a container over and over. A quick spark in the right place would jolt it back to work. I imagined doing this job for the rest of my life and shuddered. I had been at it for a little over an hour and was bored to stupidity. I stuck with it. Sparking and cursing monotonously until we reached the vault level.

  “All stop. Take a ten-minute break.”

  They kept going and I cursed again. What was the correct order?

  “Stop. Stop. Stop. Stop.” On the fourth repetition they did. I leaned my lightning prod against the wall and trotted down the dimly lit hall. Counting the entrances as I went past them, rewalking in reality the virtual reality that I had walked through so many times before. There it was.

  The outer door had an uncomplicated lock and no alarms; I opened it easily. The inner, metal-barred gate, would not be that simple. Thank goodness all of the alarms were antiques. More suitable for a museum than their guardian function.

  First a length of wire to short the alarm on the electronic lock. There were supposed to be millions of combinations possible on this ancient mechanism, making it impossible to open without hours of computer time. My machine broke the code in less than three minutes. I punched the numbers into the thing’s memory and relocked the gate.

  The alarms built into the door frame would not be a problem; I had passed through their type often in the past. However, when I put on infrared goggles the room beyond lit up with a pattern of interlaced beams. Break one beam and all the alarms would sound.

  But if I put a beam generator of the correct frequency in front of the receiver lens I would be able walk around the room undetected, no matter how many beams I cut.

  That was it. I could get into the room. I could remove the bonds from their shelves. Load the robots down and take the bonds away. To where? And, even more important, how could I get them out of the building?

  “Bowb off!” I said, with some feeling this time, as I sparked my robots back to life. I had until the end of my shift to figure out a way.

  Time dragged. Time crawled its sluggish track. Robots mopped, dumped, clattered, sparked and, eventually, my midshift break came. I zapped my horde into frozen silence and looked for a pleasant place to dine. The office of some major executive seemed fine. Seated in his leather chair, gazing across many square meters of glistening desktop, I looked out through his crystal window at the light-sparkled bulk of a bank building. And tried not to taste what I was eating. For some perverse reason Iba had a passion for pickled and smoked porcuswine tails, and always brought a container to work. For verities’ sake I had to do the same. I chewed and gagged on the gristly bits, pulled a quill from a piece of attached skin, used it to dig horrible fragments from between my teeth.

  But, even as I suffered through my grisly repast, my subconscious was at work. Analyzing, plotting, scheming, working.

  I finished quickly, threw the porcine remains into the contraterrene disposal unit-where they flared into cosmic rays-and stood to leave.

  Then sat down again as the solution to my problems surfaced in my brain and bobbed about in my cerebral cortex.

  Yes, it could be done. Not easily, and there were some very risky factors involved. I was probably the only person in the known galaxy, I thought humbly, who could even imagine a crime like this, much less pull it off.

  And all for no profit. There must be a way to get out of Kaia’s clutching grasp.

  CHAPTER 22

  Dawn was lightening the western sky when I exited the repository. I shuffled off to our meeting place where Igor was already waiting. We rode in silence back to the warehouse where I saw, as the door swung open, that Kaia’s car was there already. He strode out and stopped the truck with the upraised palm of his hand. I climbed wearily down.

  “Igor,” he commanded. “Machine empty. Go buy beer.” “No money.”

  “Here money. Go.”

  I was sure that it was privacy he wanted, not beer.

  “How did it go?” he asked as soon as the door was closed. “A piece of cake. I can get into that vault and have those bearer bonds out of there within ten minutes. Most of that time will be spent in carrying them away.”

  “Splendid.”

  “It is, isn’t it? However there is one slight problem in this otherwise most successful robbery plan.”

  “Problem? What do you mean?”

  He looked worried. I turned the knife in the wound.

  “Although I can get the bonds out of the vault-there is no way to get them out of the building the same night.”

  “I don’t know what you are taking about.” He spoke the words slowly through tight-clamped teeth:

  “It is really so simple that Igor could understand it. Take bonds out room, no out building.”

  He was flushed with rage; I was making a big mistake in taunting him at this stage. I hurried to make amends.

  “It can be done, I can get the bonds out of the vault, and eventually out of the building, that I can assure you. It is just that it will take more time. You’ll have your bonds, do not fear. But not on the morning after the theft. I toured that building and checked every entrance. They are all locked from the outside. So I would need an accomplice outside to open the door. And there would have to be a truck waiting there as well to carry away the loot.”

  “There is a possibility that could be arranged.”

  “But not easily. The street gates for vehicles are locked at night as well. There is no nighttime traffic. The truck would be too easy to see, the risk too great. But there is another way the job can be done with no risk at all. And I can do it alone, so no one else will need to be involved. And I must give you all credit for the plan. It is a variation of the scam you used to rob your own bank. You have a genius for this sort of thing.”

  He preened a bit; there is a rule that no egotist can recognize false flattery.

  “If I were not a genius I would not be the richest man in the galaxy. Go on.”

  “Follow closely. Before I empty the bond vault I go to storeroom number eight zero three. This is where the stationery supplies are kept. Bureaucracies thrive on paperwork so, as you can well imagine, this is a very large room. I will go to the rear of the stacks, which won’t be touched for months-if not years-and remove a volume of paper equal in size to the bonds to be stolen.”

  “Why?”

  “Stay with me for a bit longer. After opening the bond vault I stack the paper in the middle of floor, then I remove the bonds. Next I put a time-fused thermite bomb-I do love thermite-on the piles of paper. Next I place, a stroke of genius if I may say so, some of the stolen bonds, half-burned and scorched, about the room. As though the heat of the flame blew them there …”

  “Let me finish! ” Chaise shouted enthusiastically. “You take the stolen bonds to the stationery storage room! Where you bury them in the back, in the empty space were you took the paper earlier! Then you leave the building at the usual time in the morning-and the thermite goes off after you are gone. You leave the bond room locked?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then there is a mystery. Did the bonds light spontaneously? Who piled them up? What happened? A sealed-room mystery? Investigation and suspicion. Theft not considered at the time. Certainly not a theft that leaves the bonds still in the building.”

  “May I add a few facts to your masterful reconstruction?” I smarmed. He nodded condescendingly. “Orders for stationery are forwarded from the various departments to the central ordering room. Which sends it to the supplier. Who brings the supplies once a week.” He leaned forward expectantly as I played out my story for all it was worth.