The Daleth Effect

“So—you have answered your own question. I had a choice and I made it. I pray that I was right”

Arnie started down the hill, then stopped for a moment, “I was one of the people smuggled out to Sweden. So perhaps I am repaying a debt.”

They went down, side by side, to the light and warmth of the base.

21

“There’s no point in our taking both cars,” Martha said into the telephone. “We can fight about which one later, all right… Yes, Ove… Is Ulla ready?… Good. I’ll be there in about an hour, I guess… Yes, that should give us plenty of time. We have those seats in the reserved section and everything, so there shouldn’t be any trouble. Listen, my doorbell just rang. Everything’s all set?… See you then.”

She hung up hurriedly and went to get her housecoat as the bell rang again. All she had to do was finish her face and put her dress on—but she wasn’t going to answer the door in her slip.

“Ja, nu kommer jeg,” she called out, hurrying down the hall. When she opened the door she stopped halfway, as soon as she saw the pendant bundle of brushes; a door-to-door peddler.

“Nej tak, ingen pensler idag.”

“You had better let me in,” the man said. “I have to talk to you.”

The sudden English startled her and she looked past the well-worn suit and cap, at the man’s face. His watery blue eyes, blinking, red-rimmed.

“Mr. Baxter! I didn’t recognize you at first…”

Without the dark-rimmed glasses he seemed a totally different man.

“I can’t stand at the door like this,” he said angrily. “Let me in.”

He pushed toward her and she stepped aside to let him by, then closed the door.

“I have been trying to contact you,” he said, struggling to disentangle the bundle of whisk brooms, hairbrushes, feather dusters, toilet brushes so he could drop them on the floor. “You have had the letters, the messages.”

“I don’t want to see you. I’ve done what you want, you have the film. So stop bothering me.” She turned and put her hand on the knob.

“Don’t do that!” he shouted, sending the last brush clattering against the wall. He groped in his i

“You mean they didn’t come out? I’m sure I did everything right.”

“Not technically, that’s not what I’m talking about. The notebook, the equations—they had nothing to do with the Daleth effect. They are all involved with Rasmussen’s fusion generator and not what we want at all.”

Martha tried not to smile—but she was glad somehow. She had done as she had been asked, and she had struck out. It was not her fault about the notebook.

“Well, can’t you steal the fusion generator? Isn’t that valuable too?”

“This is not a matter of commercial value,” Baxter told her coldly, a good deal of his old ma

He glared at her, and she pulled the edges of her houseboat more tightly around her.

“There’s nothing more I can do for you. Everything is on the Moon now, you know that. Arnie’s gone too—”

“I’ll tell you what you can do, and there’s not much time left Do you think I would have gone out on a limb with this rig if things were not vital?”

“You do look sort of foolish,” she said, and tried not to giggle.

Baxter gave her a look of pure, uncut hatred, and it took him a moment to control himself. “Now you listen to me,” he finally said. “You’re going to the ceremony today, and you will be going aboard the ship afterward and there are things we need to know about it. I want you to—”

“I’ll do nothing for you. You can leave now.”

Martha reached for the doorknob as he took her by the upper arm, his fingers sinking in like steel hooks. She gasped with pain as he dragged her away from it, pulling her up close to him, speaking into her face from inches away. His breath smells of Sen-Sen, she thought.I didn’t know they still made it.

She was ready to cry, her arm hurt so much.

“Listen you, you are going to do like I say. If you want a reason other than loyalty to your country—just remember that I have a roll of film from your camera with your fingerprints all over it, and pictures of your floor. The Danes would love to see that, wouldn’t they?”

His smile made her think of a rictus, the kind that was supposed to be on people’s faces when they died of pain. She disengaged her arm from his grasp and stepped back. It would be a complete waste to tell this man what she thought of him.

“What do you want me to do?” she asked finally, looking at the floor as she said it.

“That’s more like it. You’re a great camera addict, so take this brooch. Pin it onto your purse before you go.”

She held it in her palm; it was not unattractive and would go well with her black alligator. A large central stone was surrounded by a circle of diamond chips and what could be small rubies. It was finished in hand-chased gold, rimmed by ornate whorls.

“Point your purse and press here?,” he said, indicating the top whorl. “It’s wide angle, the opening is preset, it will work in almost any light. There are over a hundred shots in here so be generous. I want pictures of the bridge and the engine room if you get there, close-ups of the controls, shots of hallways, stairs, doors, compartments, airlocks. Everything. Later on I will show you prints and you will be asked to describe what they are, so take close notice of everything and the sequence of your visit through the ship.”

“I don’t know anything about this kind of work. Can’t you get someone else, please? There will be hundreds there…”

“If we had anyone else—do you think we would be asking you!” The last word was spoken with cold contempt, thrown at her as he bent to pick up the brushes. He shook a dishmop in her direction.

“And don’t go making little accidents like dropping it, or breaking it, or exposing all the film in the dark and blaming us. I know all the tricks. You have no choice. You will take the pictures as I have told you. Here, this is for you.” He handed her a brush, smiling coldly, sure of himself. He opened the door and was gone.

Martha looked down at it—then hurled it from her. Yes, that’s what he thought. A toilet brush. She was shaking as she went to finish dressing.

“Look at the crowds!” Ove said, steering around a busload of cheering students who were waving flags from all the windows.

“Can you blame them?” Ulla asked. She was sitting in the back of the car with Martha. “This is certainly a wonderful day.”

“Weather too,” Ove said, glancing up at the sky. “Plenty of clouds, but no rain. No sun—but you can’t have everything.”

Martha sat silently, clutching her purse, the big gold brooch prominent on the flap. Ulla had noticed it, and she had had to make up a quick lie.

It would have been impossible to get close to the waterfront if they had not had their official invitation. They were waved through the barriers, and directed to Amalien-borg Palace, where the immense square had been sec-tioned off for parking. From there it was a short walk down Larsens Piads to the water’s edge. There was a holiday air even here, with a band playing lustily, bunting flapping on the stands erected on the dock, the guests nodding to each other as they took their places.

“Ten minutes,” Ove said looking at his watch. “We had better hurry. Unless Martha thinks her husband will be late?”

“Nils!”

They all laughed at the thought, Martha along with the others. For seconds at a time she would feel right at home here, being ushered to her seat—not ten feet from the King and the Royal Family—smiling happily at friends. Then memory would return with a sinking in her midriff, and she would clutch at her purse, sure that people were looking at it. Then the band broke into “King Christian,” the Royal Anthem, and there was a great rustling as everyone rose. After that the National Anthem, “There Is a Lovely Land,” terminating with a great flourish on the drums. The last notes died away and they sat down, and at almbst the same instant a distant whistling sound could be heard. They all looked up, shielding their eyes, trying to see. The sound deepened, turned to a rumble, and a dark speck broke through the layer of clouds high above.