drunk on mass-emotions. Emotions—the unseen intoxicant!
Another feeling drove away these morbid thoughts as fascinatedly he continued to stare downward: a feeling of guilty fear, like that of a man holding dangerous and punishable opinions in some far country where men are hanged for harboring the wrong thoughts. The sensation was so strong and emphatic that he made a mighty effort to discipline his mind. Dragging his gaze from the scene beneath, he nudged Wohl into attention.
“There’s nothing we can do. You’ve reached the end of Dakin’s trail and that’s that! Let’s get going.”
Reluctantly, Wohl backed away from the gap. Noticing the defeated helicopter landing on the skyway, he hastened toward it.
“Wohl, homicide squad,” he said, briefly. “Call Center Station on your short-wave, will you, and ask them to have my machine towed in for repairs. Tell them I’ll phone a report through shortly.”
Returning to the still gaping group of drivers, he questioned them, found one who was bound for William Street. The fellow had an ancient four-wheeler capable of a noisy fifty. Wohl accepted a lift with becoming condescension, climbed in crinkling his nose in disgust.
“Some move with the times, some jump ahead of the moment, and some just stay put.” He picked disdainfully at the worn leatherette on which he was sitting. “This hell-buster has stayed put since Tut built the pyramids.”
“Tut didn’t,” Graham contradicted.
“Tut’s brother, then. Or his uncle. Or his sub-contractor. Who cares?” His head jerked backward as the driver let in a jumpy clutch and the car creaked forward. He uttered a potent name, looked aggrieved, said to Graham, “I’m letting you tote me around because, being just another wage-slave, I’ve got to do as I’m told. But I’ve still no notion of what you’re seeking, if anything. Does your department know something special that isn’t for publication?”
“We know nothing more than you do. It all started with me having some vague suspicions, and my superiors backing them up.” He gazed speculatively at the cracked and yellowish windshield. “I first smelled the skunk. For my pains, I’ve now got to dig out the stinker—or sing small.”
“Well, I’ve got to hand it to you for getting hunches and having the nerve to play them.” He bounced around on his seat, said complainingly, “Look, homicide on the job, in a jalopy! That’s where it gets us. Everybody dies, and even we’re in a corpse-wagon.” He bounced again, hard. “I can see by the way things are shaping that I’ll finish up playing with feathers and treacle. But I’m with you as long as I stay sane.”
“Thanks,” Graham responded, smiling. He studied his companion. “By the way, what’s your other name?”
“Art.”
“Thanks, Art,” he corrected.
Chapter 3
THEIR CAREFUL SEARCH OF DAKIN’S place revealed nothing worthy of note; no last, dramatic message, no hidden jottings, no feature that could be considered in any way abnormal. As a route to the solution of their indefinable puzzle, it was somewhat of a dead-end.
Discovering the late scientist’s original and crude model of his vernier, Wohl amused himself by projecting its standard stereoscopic cube upon a small screen. Twiddling the micrometer focusing screw that controlled the cube’s perspective, he made the geometrical skeleton flat enough to appear almost two-dimensional, then deep enough to resemble an apparently endless tunnel. “Cute!” he murmured.
Graham came out of a back room holding a small, nearly empty vial of iodine in his fingers.
“I looked for this on another hunch. It was in his medicine chest along with enough patent cure-alls to stock a drugstore. Dakin always was something of a hypochondriac.” He put the vial on the table, surveyed it morosely. “So that means exactly nothing.” His dissatisfied glance went round the room. “We’re only losing time in this place. I want to see