these parts, Cal Renfield was seated at a large oval desk contemplating a rough page layout, some of which was already blocked in with half-tones and criss-crossed areas indicating copy. A mug of black coffee cooled at his elbow.
He levered himself into a semi-standing position, and when they had shaken hands flopped down again, his belly reverberating with the shock-wave.
âMy staff have taken the day off,â Cal Renfield said, gesturing at the empty office with a hand that reminded Frank of a small pink pin-cushion.
âYou have staff?â Frank said good-naturedly.
âSure I have staff. All one of them. Do you want some coffee?â
âNo thanks,â Frank said, and then changed his mind.
Cal Renfield nodded towards the electric coffee pot andinvited him to help himself. As Frank was doing this the small balding man said, âDonât you slick city reporters ever wear suits? All Iâve ever seen you in is denims, polo-neck sweaters and wind-cheaters. Is that the new hip style for Chicago newspapermen?â
Frank did a mannequinâs twirl. âTodayâs ensemble is leather,â he intoned in the arch portentous tones of the fashion commentator. âNote the neat little coloured leather side-panels sewn into the body of the garment,
so
useful for carrying all the essentials of the writerâs trade: pens, pencils, notebooks, erasers, portable typewriters.â
âFrom what I heard, a safety-helmet, a pick-axe and a pair of minerâs boots would be a darn sight more useful.â Cal Renfield offered a pack of cigarettes, his grey eyes shrewd and watchful.
âSo you heard about that?â Frank said. He took a cigarette and lit them both. His hand was perfectly steady.
âIâm the local newshound,â Cal Renfield reminded him. âThey wouldnât allow me to visit the Project but I spoke with Lee Merriam, whoâs a regular guy, and he gave me the salient facts. As we newshounds say.â His soft round features sobered and his eyes became flat, without expression. âIt didnât help the men trapped below ground much.â
Frank drank his coffee.
âWhat happened exactly?â
âI thought you said Lee Merriam told you.â
âHe did. Some of it.â
âThe salient facts.â
âLee wasnât underground when the tremor started. You were.â
âWe were underground,â Frank said. âThere was an earth tremor. End of story.â
Cal Renfield nodded his head slowly. He sniffed. âFor a reporter your power of recall isnât what Iâd call shit-hot.â
âI keep telling you, Cal, Iâm not a reporter â Iâm a feature writer with a science magazine. What happened is probablywhat Lee Merriam told you. I donât want to bore the ass off of you by repeating it.â
âBut you found the bodies?â
âYes. They were on the gantry.â
âWhat gantry is that?â
âYouâve never been down to the detection chamber?â
Cal Renfield smiled. âDo you think theyâd allow the editor of the local newspaper to look at that vital top secret installation of theirs? No way, brother. No chance.â
âWho told you it was top secret?â
âFriedmann. When they moved in I went up to interview him and he gave me a long rigmarole about top secret this and classified that. I got the impression they were engaged on some kind of advanced research for the government. Isnât that so?â
âIn a way it is,â Frank said, reminding himself that caution was the watchword of the day. âTheyâre funded by a government agency, the Institute of Astrophysics. But Iâd hardly describe the work they do as top secret.â
âOkay,â said Cal Renfield, blowing a plume of smoke at the ceiling. âYou found the bodies on the gantry. Which is in the detection chamber.â
âThere isnât a lot to say about
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