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adjusted, Garwood took two tentative steps forward—
And came to an abrupt halt as strong hands slipped smoothly around each arm.
"Dr. James Garwood?" a shadowy figure before him asked quietly.
Garwood opened his mouth to deny it... but even as he did so he knew it would
be useless. "Yes," he signed. "And you?"
"Major Alan Davidson; Combined Services Intelligence. They miss you back at
your lab, Doctor."
Garwood glanced past the husky man holding his right arm, saw the line of
passengers goggling at him.
"So it was all a set-up?" he asked. "The bus is okay?"
Davidson nodded. "A suspicious clerk in Springfield thought you might be a
fugitive. From your description and something about a broken ashtray my
superiors thought it might be you. Come with me, please."
Garwood didn't have much choice. Propelled gently along by the hands still
holding his arms, he followed
Davidson toward the lighted building and a long car parked in the shadows
there. "Where are you taking me?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
Davidson reached the car and opened the back door; and it wasn't until he and
Garwood were in the back seat and the other two soldiers in front that the
major answered the question. "Chanute AFB, about fifteen miles north of
Champaign," he told Garwood as the car pulled back onto the interstate and
headed east. "We'll be transferring you to a special plane there for the trip
back to the Project."
Garwood licked his lips. A plane. How many people, he wondered, wished that
mankind had never learned to fly? There was only one way to know for sure...
and that way might wind up killing him. "You put me on that plane and it could
be the last anyone ever sees of me," he told Davidson.
"Really?" the major asked politely.
"Did they tell you why I ran out on the Project? That the place was falling
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down around my ears?"
"They mentioned something about that, yes," Davidson nodded. "I really don't
think you have anything to worry about, though. The people in charge of
security on this one are all top notch."
Garwood snorted. "You're missing the point, Major. The lab wasn't under any
kind of attack from outside agents. It was falling apart because was in it."
I
Davidson nodded. "And as I said, we're going to have you under complete
protection—"
"No!" Garwood snapped. "I'm not talking about someone out there gunning for me
or the Project. It's my presence there—my physical presence inside
Backdrop—that was causing all the destruction."
Davidson's dimly visible expression didn't change. "How do you figure that?"
Garwood hesitated, glancing at the front seat and the two silhouettes there
listening into the conversation.
Major Davidson might possibly be cleared for something this sensitive; the
others almost certainly weren't. "I can't tell you the details," he said,
turning back to Davidson. "I—look, you said your superiors nailed me
because of a broken ashtray in Springfield, right? Did they tell you anything
more?"
Davidson hesitated, then shook his head. "No."
"It broke because I came too close to it," Garwood told him. "There's
a—oh, an aura, I guess you could call it, of destruction surrounding me.
Certain types of items are especially susceptible, including internal
combustion engines. That's why I don't want to be put on any plane."
"Uh-huh," Davidson nodded. "West, you having any trouble with the car?"
"No, sir," the driver said promptly. "Running real smooth."
Garwood took a deep breath. "It doesn't always happen right away," he said
through clenched teeth. "I
rode the bus for over an hour without anything happening, remember? But if it
does happen with a plane, we can't just pull off the road and stop."
Davidson sighed. "Look, Dr. Garwood, just relax, okay? Trust me, the plane
will run just fine."
Garwood glared through the gloom at him. "You want some proof?—is that
what it'll take? Fine.
Do you have any cigarettes?"
For a moment Davidson regarded him in silence. Then, flicking on a dim
overhead dome light, he dug a crumpled pack from his pocket.
"Put a couple in my hand," Garwood instructed him, extending a palm, "and
leave the light on."
Davidson complied with the cautious air of a man at a magic show. "Now what?"
"Just keep an eye on them. Tell me, do you like smoking?"
The other snorted. "Hell, no. Tried to give the damn things up at least twenty
times. I'm hooked pretty good, I guess."
"You like being hooked?"
"That's a stupid question."
Garwood nodded. "Sorry. So, now... how many other people, do you suppose, hate
being hooked by tobacco?"
Davidson gave him a look that was half frown, half glare. "What's your point,
Doctor?"
Garwood hesitated. "Consider it as a sort of subconscious democracy. You don't
like smoking, and a whole lot of other people in this country don't like
smoking. A lot of them wish there weren't any cigarettes—wish these
cigarettes didn't exist."
"And if wishes were horses, beggars would ride," Davidson quoted. He reached
over, to close his fingers on the cigarettes in Garwood's palm—
And jerked his hand back as they crumpled into shreds at his touch.
"What the hell?"
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he snapped, practically in Garwood's ear. "What did you do?"
"I was near them," Garwood said simply. "I was near them, and a lot of people
don't like smoking. That's all there is to it."
Davidson was still staring at the mess in Garwood's palm. "It's a trick. You
switched cigarettes on me."
"While you watched?" Garwood snorted. "All right, fine, let's do it again. You
can write your initials on them this time."
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