American Science Fiction #41 — page 7: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

Ce Gelieve: that reminds me, too: that night in the lab the Doctor had one of those boxes mineral samples are kept in. It was very heavy, as if it Pe : : ag DF} air : Aha 3h Pa -__was solid lead.” Excited now, I shot my questions es in rapid fire. ’ “Do you know _ the geologist’s name? . Would you remember it ~~ af you heard it apam? ... Good....*. -- Can you get the day off?... Then s0 ~~ back home and start remembering that man’s name for all your life’s _ worth. Get a telephone directory. Go through it. _ Try anything but recall that name.’ ive STi CHAPTER 2 LEFT Budnick a little dazed by eee my emphatic manner and whip- ped over to the headquarfters of the _ atomic labs. There I checked on back _ visitors’ lists but evidently the Doc- tor’s geologist friend hadn’t visited - him on the job. I dropped in at the telegraph office and wired Armstrong _ in Washington for a list of Chetzisky’s acquaintances, the names of the mem- bers of the National Academy of ue Setences, Association for the Ad- - yancement of Sciences, the Geological = Society, the OSRD. ee - Then I went back to Budnick and ee began a mental third degree, using a og np Sa hyming dictionary, a genealogical __, compendium and the collection lists eS * from an old church bulletin. Hour after hour I kept it up. Others had seen the Doctor’s visitor, but only Budnick knew the name, It was the only clue I had to go on. == After eight solid hours, broken ~- only by coffee and sandwich snacks, Budnick was begging me to call off the grilling. “Give me a break. Let | me get a little sleep.” He clutched his head as if he were trying to keep it from flying apart. His eyes were swollen and red. “Att right,” I said; Budnick was ‘at his limit. Besides, T had to wait for Armstrong’s reply to my tele- gram. Budnick rolled to the floor and went to sleep on the spot. I sank : down in an armchair, tired, but too tense to*sleep, and waited, STOPWATCH ON THE. WORLD 7 Three hours Jater Armstrong’s re- ply came, I ripped the ycton envel- ope open. CANNOT GET INFORMATION YOU REQUESTED BECAUSE OF NEW SECURITY REGULA-, TIONS. : Armstrong. I slumped back into the chair, swearing silently at every bureau- crat. in Washington, Served them Tight if we let Chetzisky fry them. ~ But it meant being fried ourselves; I looked. over to the snoring Budnick and decided on a trick I had seen Army interrogators work during the war. “Come on, Budnick,” I said shak- ing him. I called to his wife to bring some fresh coffee. After he had gulp- ed down two steaming cups, I opened up on him again. “Abeles, Aberon” .. . For two hours I shot names at him from a telephone directory without let-up. My voice turned hoarse. Budnick’s eyes went sick and he began to furn green, the colour of corroded cop- r. This was the moment. I stopped my staccato fire and walked over to the window. Silence settled in the room like a velvet hush. It was soothing, like cool cloth on a fevered forehead. I went over to Budnick, offered him a cigarette, and fit it for him. ' He took a long, contented puff. Casually I placed an ash tray at his elbow. “Thanks,” he said. Then, taking a grip on my banjo nerves, I spoke as quietly as I could, “What- did you say his name was?” . “Pilon.” The name sprang from his lips be- fore he realised it. He stared at me dumbfounded, then he was on his feet, yelling like a man suddenly freed from a nightmare. “That's it, Pilon. Pilon. Why didn’t -F think of it before?” I said amen to that. Exhaustion took hold of me. I just wanted to sleep. But first I had to wire Arm-- strong to find out all he could about . a geologist named Pilon, first name Cconmiclooolks. com