Metzger's Dog

25 “Well? What do you think of it?” asked Chinese Gordon.

Kepler scratched his chin with his forefinger, trying not to spill the can of beer he held in his hand. “That professor didn’t write this. Have you noticed?”

“Of course I noticed. The earthquake institute mapped out all the targets in Mexico City that were most important and vulnerable, and the CIA just developed the easiest ways to take them out, like a recipe. Donahue had nothing to do with it. What are you getting at?”

“This is getting a little far from the original point. A little theoretical, like the professor. I’m prepared to believe that this plan could be done in Mexico City. A hundred highly trained and experienced people go in, and each one has two backup men just as good as he is, and they can completely shut the place down in a matter of minutes. They can make everything happen that the earthquake people are afraid of.”

“The report says it doesn’t take a hundred guys. It says they can do the main part of it with a handful.”

Immelmann said to Kepler, “You can tell that Chinese Gordon is not yet satisfied with the behavior of our public servants.”

“He’s disappointed.”

“Miffed.”

“Piqued.”

“Vexed.”

“Irked.”

“He doesn’t seem prepared to accept the limitations Fate has placed on him.”

“What limitations?” asked Chinese Gordon.

“Silence, please.” Kepler held up his free hand. “The village elders are considering your case.” To Immelmann he said, “A tired old story of thwarted ambition.”

“Complicated by extreme greed.”

Doctor Henry Metzger appeared on the workbench along the far wall of the shop, stepped easily among the clutter of tools and machine parts without touching any of them, and dropped to the floor. Immelmann said, “Hey, Chinese. How does that cat get in and out of here like that? Everything is all closed up.”

Chinese Gordon’s jaw clenched. He said quietly, “I don’t know.”

“Maybe the dog has a key,” said Kepler. Then he added, “This is obviously a sore subject, like being beaten up by dwarfs.”

“Chinese,” said Immelmann, “what you have to do is get some perspective. Considering who we were trying to blackmail, I’d say we did pretty well just to get out of it in one piece.”

“You mean you’re ready to give up?”

“I’m not ready to declare war, destroy a major city, or take over a country, even if the CIA provides a foolproof recipe. I don’t need the additional responsibility of owning a country at this time. Besides, I think you’re not paying attention to what the report has to teach us. Not the details, but the papers as a whole.”

Kepler said, “Just what I was trying to say before. The fact that the CIA lets the Mexican government tell it how to take over Mexico City should suggest to you that these are not people we can handle with much confidence. Not only did they behave in an ungentlemanly manner with the Mexicans, but the man who let us get these papers managed to live a whole two days afterward. Writ large across every page is: ‘These Are People Around With Whom Thou Shalt Not Screw.’”

Chinese Gordon sat motionless on the steps as Doctor Henry Metzger jumped to his lap, then climbed over his shoulder to continue up the stairs to the balcony where Margaret stood.

“I wish you’d listen to Chinese,” she said. “You’re both being silly. We don’t want to do anything as drastic as this contingency plan. We just want to remind them that we have it and understand it and that we can think of some vivid ways to reveal it.”

Immelmann said, “When you say not drastic, what do you mean?”

“It’s little enough to ask,” she said.

“But what is it?”

“Just close down Los Angeles for a day.”

Kepler lifted his beer can and drank, then said, “You know that if we get caught at it they’ll recognize we were following their plan. It’ll be the first time this year that four people hang themselves in prison on the same day.”

“We won’t get caught,” said Chinese Gordon. “The plan is perfect.”

Margaret smiled. “It’ll make us all feel so much better.”

“IT WAS WHEN I WAS GETTING those wrong numbers that time. I knew if I didn’t convince myself it was the circuits, I was going to go crazy. I’d call the police and this big fat voice would come on: ‘Go…fuck…yourself,’ and then hang up.” Immelmann shook his head and stared at the floor. “It was frightening. So I went down to Santa Monica to the big office and picked up this pamphlet and read it.”

“Did you figure it out?” said Margaret, taking the pamphlet.

“No. That’s the drawback. The system is so big and complicated they’re the only ones who can figure it out. Just the name of it tells you that. The COSMIC Distributing Frame.”

“There may be religious implications in this,” said Kepler. “Most of the world’s religions started within fifty miles of here.”

Margaret read, “‘The COSMIC Distributing Frame at the South Grand Avenue switching station is the largest in the world, with a capacity of one million four hundred and forty thousand cable pairs and internal equipment lines.’”

“And to think they can still manage to connect Immelmann with the Holy Ghost,” Kepler said.

“It sounds too big,” said Chinese Gordon.

Margaret read on, “‘The miracle that makes the COSMIC frame possible is the revolutionary PACE computer-based system. With the PACE (Program for Arrangement of Cables and Equipment) only six rows of modules are necessary.’”

Chinese Gordon said, “How long is a row, and what’s a module?”

“More of the universal questions that only the anointed can answer.” Kepler poured a drop of beer on his own head and assumed a thoughtful expression. “No, that doesn’t help.”

“I’m coming to it,” Margaret said. “‘No line need be more than six and a half feet long.’ So it can’t be very big.”

“They’ll have a hell of a time calling for the repairman,” said Chinese Gordon. “Isn’t technology wonderful?”

Kepler nodded. “Sure beats shooting a couple of thousand operators.”

MARGARET’S PLAIN CHARCOAL GRAY JACKET and skirt seemed to change her even more than the wig and glasses, and there was something about the way she carried the little leather case that made it look as though she might pull something out of it that would change someone’s life—maybe a short list of people whose services were no longer necessary.

Chinese Gordon watched the receptionist’s face as Margaret said, “Miss Briggs.” The black plastic plate on the front of the desk said Carolyn Briggs, but Miss Briggs looked startled and seemed to grow pale. “Yes. May I help you?” It was so early in the morning for visitors.

Margaret’s face was stony. “Kimberly Abrams, corporate headquarters, San Francisco. If a call comes in during the next few minutes, I’ll be near the switching equipment. Can you point me in the right direction?”

“Certainly. Third door on your right, with the big ‘No Admittance’ sign.” Miss Briggs had straightened in her chair.

Chinese Gordon followed Margaret down the hall, then waited as she pounded on the door. When it opened she said, “Kimberly Abrams, corporate headquarters, San Francisco” again, and Chinese Gordon could see a young man in a short-sleeved shirt with a tie and a row of pens and pencils in the breast pocket arranged according to length. “Bill McGee,” he said, and brushed an unruly tuft of hair off his forehead, not sure if he should offer to shake her hand.

She turned away from him and said to Chinese Gordon, “We’ll get out of your way and let you get to work.”

Chinese Gordon said, “It’ll only take a minute, ma’am.” He set his tool case on the floor and knelt to open it.

The young man smiled uncomfortably and asked, “Is it something I can give you a hand with?”

“Oh no,” said Margaret, and for the first time her features displayed a mild amusement. “He’s only changing the lock. Meanwhile, I’ve got to have you sign for the new key and be on my way.”

She brushed past him into the room and glanced quickly about her as she rummaged inside the leather case. She had imagined it would be a wall of exposed wires and boxes that made clicking noises, but it wasn’t. There were four or five computer terminals with sleek molded casings and a console along the wall. The room looked empty and surgically sterile. She wondered if Chinese Gordon would know what to do. She stared past the young man at Chinese Gordon, who was looking at the machines out of the corner of his eye as he worked. His face showed no surprise, no concern. He already had the old lock out of the door.

She handed the key to the young man and said, “Before you sign, do you understand your responsibility?”

He stared ahead with a noble, serious expression. “Yes, I do.”

“Fine.” She handed him a card that said only “7503, Number 4,” and he selected a pen from his pocket and signed it. Margaret looked at it closely and then dropped it in her leather case. Then she pointed to the console and asked, “Is that our pride and joy?”

The young man’s voice deepened with self-importance. “Part of it. The distributing frame is mostly behind those housings.” He waved his whole arm to indicate a bank of plain squares that looked to her like kitchen cabinet doors. “We use the terminals to debug the programming of the switching system, but if we need to, we can access just about any base we want.”

She hoped Chinese Gordon had been listening, but she couldn’t be sure. He looked absorbed in what he was doing. “Very good. Now can you please point me in the direction of the Santa Monica Freeway?”

“Certainly,” he said. “Just go straight up Grand past Washington and there you are.”

“I’m sorry, but my sense of direction is embarrassing. Could you just point?”

“Oh, sure,” he said, and pointed toward the console.

“I mean outside.”

“Oh. Sorry.” He blushed, then rushed forward through the doorway. Margaret followed slowly, and then he stopped himself and came back to walk beside her at a slower pace. “I’m not supposed to leave the room,” he whispered. “I’m monitoring.”

“You have permission this time,” she whispered back, and walked still more slowly.

As soon as they turned away, Chinese Gordon backed into the room. From his tool kit he lifted a caulking gun fitted with a narrow metal nozzle that came to a point. It took both hands to lift the caulking gun to the first of the housings covering the distributing frame and insert the nozzle. It was hard for the eyes to accept that the compact cylinder was this heavy—heavier than gold and almost as heavy as lead. He pumped the trigger and moved quickly to the next housing. One after the other he pried them open a crack and slipped the nozzle in, then pumped the trigger a few times. By the third one he could tell the caulking gun was lighter, and when he had finished the console, it was empty. He closed the tool kit over the caulking gun and walked to the hallway, locking the door behind him.

Chinese Gordon had been gone no more than two minutes before Mr. McGee stepped back through the front entrance of the building. As he passed Miss Briggs his eyes didn’t meet hers because he didn’t want to see the disapproval he expected. He knew it wouldn’t be jealousy because the woman from headquarters had been to see him, only impersonal contempt because he’d left the switching equipment. He knew that whatever it was, it would take him another week now before he’d be able to work up his confidence to ask her to go to dinner. He’d watch her and listen to the tone of her voice for at least that long before he was sure. His lowered eyes crossed her desk as he passed, and some part of his mind registered the fact that all three of the buttons on her telephone that happened to be lighted went out at the same time. When he reached the door of the switching room, he tried the knob. Then he inserted his key, and it wouldn’t turn. A big drop of sweat moved down his forehead in a slow arc and splashed on the inner surface of the lens of his glasses like a tear.

On the other side of the door behind the plain spotless surface of the airtight housing that protected the first row of modules in the distributing frame, several thousand tiny random electrical catastrophes were occurring in the microcircuits. The silvery spray of mercury had landed in shivering globules on all of the main boards and caused first one short circuit, then sixty, then hundreds as each one spattered sizzling droplets of mercury in every direction, each droplet causing another short circuit. In a few moments enough of these sparks would have occurred to melt the insulation that protected the wires of the major circuits. Less than a minute later a significant portion of the mercury would reach three hundred fifty-seven degrees Centigrade, and it would begin to boil. Then the space inside the airtight housing would begin to glow with an unearthly light that oscillated from yellowish-green to blue as the thousands of exposed wires discharged electricity in infinitesimal lightning bolts through the mercury vapor.